Whiskey
by jessa-beth
Summary: John comes home to 221b Baker Street completely wasted. In his drunken state, John admits his attraction for Sherlock, thoroughly interrupting the case he's working on. Fluffy Johnlock with a bit of smut, hence the M rating .
1. A Drunken Spark

_I have not edited this piece of shit yet. I really should do that, but I don't care. Wrote during class today. I'm feeling seriously lazy right now. Ugh. Let me know if there are glaring errors, please. Thank you!_

_Also, please let me know what you think, my friends! I always love to hear your opinions. Thanks, guys!_

* * *

><p>"You're drunk."<p>

John jumped at the sound of his colleague's voice looming out of the dark. He flipped the light on. "Jesus, Sherlock, you frightened me half to death." The consulting detective had been sitting cross-legged in the dark for hours, lost in thought as usual. He was musing over a grueling case involving a serial rapist and murderer. After hours of contemplation in the black interior of 221b, Sherlock's eyes ached at the sudden introduction of light.

Sherlock now lifted his gaze to his friend. "How ordinary you are," he said. "You, good doctor, are completely hammered." He was indeed. John's cheeks were a brilliant shade, and he reeked of whiskey. "I could tell that you were even before you came up the stairs."

John snorted, stumbling forward on unsteady legs. "How?"

"You took thirty seconds longer than usual to get your key in the lock downstairs. The pattern of your footsteps was irregular, too..."

"Yes, yes, alright," John slurred, flopping into the armchair in front of his flat mate. The sleuth looked haggard but invigorated by his day's work. His fingertips were pressed together, poised before his face. Over his slender hands, Sherlock's eyes were visible. They held an intense excitement. The case was a thrilling one. He was high on its intrigue, and it was clear, even to John. "Yeah, so what if I am a bit sloshed, hm?"

"_A bit_?"

"Whassit matter anyway? Y' don't need me here, y' never do when you're working, you just go off and do all... whatever it is y' do."

Sherlock's expression was unchanging. "Don't be ridiculous. It is of no import to me if you choose to dull your mental capacities with alcohol. but please," he implored, "do _not_ make the mistake of thinking I do not need you, my friend."

John's eyes glowed. They were already shining from his intoxication, but now a lovely joy seemed to fill them that didn't really have much to do with his extreme intake of whiskey. "D' you mean that, Sherlock?" he asked with a hiccough.

He did not answer, but looked pointedly at the man now swaying a little in his seat. John understood. He always did, and Sherlock supposed that not even the numbing whiskey could hinder a bond like theirs. Surprise came over Sherlock then, as John suddenly slipped from his chair and onto the floor. His knees hit the floorboards loudly, and Sherlock flinched for his friend who would certainly be bruised there in the morning. He shook his head exasperatedly. He should never underestimate the inhibiting nature of alcohol, he reminded himself, taking note of how shameful John looked at the moment.

"Damn it, John," he hissed. He stood, and took John by the arm to lift him back into his chair. As soon as the shorter man had settled back into the cushion, however, he grabbed Sherlock's spindly upper arm. Sherlock tried to shake him off, but John had a tight grip. He would not relinquish. "Let go." Sherlock tried to soften his voice as though he was speaking to a very stupid child, but the result was more dangerous and warning, rather than sweet and coaxing as intended. John giggled at this.

"You are sexy when you order me around like that."

Sherlock froze. His breath caught, and his stomach turned. For what felt like the first time in his life, he was totally speechless. Nothing could have prepared him for that. He had never deduced any sexual attraction from John. Not _really, _anyway. Had he?

"No, really," John slurred. "You're _damn_ sexy." Sherlock cleared his throat, dislodging his shock as much as possible.

"And you," he said coolly, "are completely trashed, John."

"That doesn't make me not right. More honest when drunk are a person."

The detective restrained from commenting on his friend's poor sentence structure. "You would never say anything like this if you were sober."

John made an ungodly disgruntled noise. "You don't know that. You think you know ev'rything, but you don't know everything. Y' never know... you never knew all this time how... _fucking_... sexy I think you are, all this time, y' never knew. See, y' don't know ev'rything. I know y' don't know everything because you don't know how you hurt people. Shut me out like you did t'day. Tell me to go. Tell me to go do something else because I was so un-useful, so here I am. I got smashed with Stamford and here I am."

Sherlock swallowed hard. He felt his own pulse quickening. He felt uncomfortable. He wished to fall back into his case now, but he could not leave John unsupervised as he was. To be honest, he could not leave John at all, for he was still trapped in his companion's clutch. "John," he said slowly. "Please let me go. Let me take you to bed."

"Why bed? I'm fine wherever you are, so let me stay here. I'm good where you are, because I like you. That's when I'm happy, so let me stay, don't tell me to go 'way again." John tugged, and Sherlock's knees buckled as the doctor dragged him down. He was forced to bend before John, bracing himself on the armrests of John's chair so he was not falling right on top of him. John was craning his neck up. He was dangerously close to Sherlock's faze.

"Gorgeous," John whispered, his eyes scanning Sherlock's face and lingering for a while on his mouth. He licked his lips.

This closeness was very unfamiliar to Sherlock, and it made his heart pound a little too hard. He could feel it banging on his ribs painfully, like a drum beat. He felt John's extraordinarily rapid pulse through his fingers which were digging into his arm. He watched John's pupils dilate dramatically before his very eyes. The man was seriously aroused by this close proximity. It was all so strange. Sherlock had never thought this possible. He had certainly never witnessed these symptoms in his flat mate in the past! Was it just the alcohol doing this to him, or was John just abnormally good at suppression when he was sober? Sherlock wasn't sure, but both seemed like sound hypotheses. If the latter was true, however, what did that mean for their relationship dynamic that worked so very well as it was? Perhaps it was better that this be merely a drunken indiscretion. Yes, Sherlock hoped wildly, as John gave him a piercing look. That was the much preferred outcome.

Those lips were just _too_ close now. It was causing Sherlock's body to react in a way that surprised and frightened him. It had to stop. "No," he said, attempting to pry John's fingers from his bicep. "This is not..." John's tongue darted out and brushed Sherlock's upper lip so he shuddered. "...Not... what you really want," he finished weakly in a low whisper. The last time Sherlock's heart had pounded this way was the last time he'd had a good street chase. He was panting heavily, his hot breath ruffling John's short hair.

"Lemme decide what I want for myself, you arse."

Their mouths met each other.

Sherlock's world hushed in that singular moment.

John tasted strongly of whiskey, but he was so delicious. Sherlock was able to pick apart what was alcohol and what was purely John. It was amazing.

Everything was fantastically quiet. There was no murder anymore. Not here, not now; not when there was this glorious mouth to be explored, offering itself to his curiosity. It was so new, and so exciting. Sherlock felt, as his best mate kissed him deeply, a whole world opening up to him: a world of biological need which existed only within the realm of John's warmth, lips, tongue, and body. That was all that mattered.

When John's tongue invaded his mouth deeply, Sherlock felt a shocking pulse in his groin that made him withdraw suddenly out of surprise. His head spun, but John's head seemed to be spinning much more than his. His eyelids were drooping. His face was going slack. His grip on Sherlock's arm finally let up. "John?" Sherlock slapped his friend's cheek a little, trying to rouse him. "John." He slumped forward, unconscious.

With a sigh, Sherlock pushed him back so he sank into the plush armchair. The drunken army doctor was now snoring.

It took a few seconds before Sherlock realized that he was actually shaking. Every limb of his was trembling, in fact. His lips were wet, and tingling from the feeling John had left there with his. The flavor of Irish whiskey lingered in his mouth now-whiskey and _John_ taste. His trousers felt tight. His face felt flushed.

He emitted a groan of frustration, and flung himself into his chair. He was brooding fiercely. Tonight had changed _everything_. Damn John. Sherlock felt disgusted with his own reactions. He was usually able to remain impassive, but this-John's amazing damn mouth-had broken a dam within him. A primal desire to satiate himself physically was raging in him now, pumping hot in his veins. It was terrifying, though he hated to admit that. It was a feeling Sherlock had certainly never experienced before, and he wasn't sure he liked it. He could not stand being unable to control his own thoughts and feelings. It brought him back to the state of mind he'd lived in the days before he started detective work. The furious tornado of un-channelled energy whirling inside him was a dangerous feeling. He'd hated himself back then. In those days, Sherlock had quieted his mad, unsatisfied genius with drugs of every kind. Now, he did so with puzzles. In this situation, however, he didn't think anything would satisfy this madness but John's body. John had unleashed this storm, and only he could assuage it; Sherlock felt sure of that. From his armchair, he watched his colleague sleep. The army doctor's mouth was slightly open, his breathing deep and regular. Sherlock had a crazy desire to shove his tongue between those parted lips, but he refrained with some difficulty. The unconscious man's cheeks were a darling pink color, and Sherlock couldn't help finding him strangely endearing to his heart.

Anxiety rose suddenly in his gut. His legs jittered. His fingers rapped on his knees. His eyes were twitching, his breathing was shaky, and his pulse was still abnormally high and irregular. "Damn it," he growled. He was furious with his friend for doing this to him now. He needed to work. He needed John to be conscious, to explain to him-Sherlock stopped suddenly. His heart dropped a little. What if John remembered none of this in the morning? He didn't know what he would do then. Would he pretend it never happened, or tell him? Sherlock wondered tensely what he really wanted, anyway. Did he want to progress their relationship into a physical one? A single throb in his groin answered that question for him, but he was not thinking straight right now, anyway. He shook his head. This was all very bad. He had cases to work on, but now his attention was divided. Long, painful minutes passed of this misery before Sherlock's mind finally began to ease up again, and he was able at last to sink back into the comforting mystery of his case.

At some point in the next half an hour, the thought occurred to him that he should probably move John to his bed. But then, he thought, the idea of touching John made his insides squirm again, and he did not want to expose himself to the horrible temptation of the scenario. So with a heavy heart, Sherlock decided against it, and left his friend to sleep-all night-upright in his armchair.

He was sure John would be sore in the morning, but he could only smirk. He thought of it as revenge for causing this stir.

_Damn John_.


	2. The Interrogation

_Trigger warning for mentions of rape._

_Wrote this chapter while slightly drunk last night. Forgive the stupidness and the shortness of it. This story is a fun little thing for me when I'm bored, so it's kind of whatever, but I hope you like it. I'm trying to incorporate a case a little in this story (though I'm avoiding Sherlock's deductions at all costs... he's too brilliant for me to try my hand at it), and I'll be keeping that up for a bit. It's kinda fun, actually. Chapter three is in progress. It may even be finished tonight. There will be some more kissing (and other stuff) then, so that's something to look forward to._

_Anyway... enjoy!_

_*EDIT: I should remind you that I am American, and having basically NO knowledge of UK laws, I am just gonna fly with American laws, because that's all I know, and I don't even know THOSE very well. Sorry for any and all inconsistencies, my dear friends! Really, really sorry! I'm actually kinda hating myself for this right now. I probably should do my research before writing things like this, but I just don't have the time. I would assume they need a warrant, but if I'm wrong, just forgive me please!_

* * *

><p>Sherlock did not sleep that night. He had, by morning, almost forgotten about John and his indiscretion of the previous night. He was so wrapped up in the evidence of the case at hand that it was all he could think about. His mind palace enveloped him, and off he went. He felt like he was so close to something important... something just out of arm's reach.<p>

It was about eight in the morning when Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. "John," he called, too deep in his thoughts to be bothered to move. John, however, did not come to his rescue. "John," he snapped a little more loudly. "Phone."

The doctor made a funny sound.

"John!" Sherlock called again.

The man rolled over sleepily in his armchair, seeming unwilling to get up, but then his muscles clearly ached enough to actually rouse him. He rubbed his shoulders, his eyes shut tightly as he sat upright slowly, painstakingly. "What?" he mumbled. Even without paying attention, Sherlock could tell his doctor's hangover was hurting him. He glanced up and took in the sight of his friend's bloodshot eyes. He was squinting, his lips were pursed, his brow was furrowed. He smelled of alcohol, and his expression was a confused one. Any stupid person could have caught those signs. Incredibly, though, Sherlock did not care.

"Phone," he repeated.

John grumbled, rubbing his eyes at the sunlight pouring in from the window. "Wha- Where is it?"

"Pocket," he stated dully, searching his thoughts hard for the answer he needed.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He needed to think, but he couldn't, not now that John was moving about, flaunting that enticing scent of his. "Are you serious, Sherlock? Again?" But he did not respond. How had the criminal done it? It seemed obvious, and yet...

He felt the hand scrounge in his breast pocket, and a weight lifted. John read the text aloud.

"It's from Lestrade," he said. "Another attempt. This time no murder. Victim got away. At St. Bart's now." Sherlock sat bolt upright, his excitement overwhelming.

"There it is, John!" he cried, scurrying about for his scarf and coat. "The mistake we were waiting for! He's done it! I imagine this woman can tell us exactly- what's wrong?"

He stopped, watching John carefully. The man was bleary eyed and in a lot of pain. "You don't need me on this," he said in a raspy voice. "I'm gonna stay home and make eggs."

Sherlock felt an odd pang of disappointment. He wanted his blogger there, to see him crack this impossible mystery. He wanted to have John call him "Amazing!" and "Brilliant!" as ever, but this time the poor bloke did not seem up to it. He looked in a right state, and Sherlock felt partially to blame. He had upset John yesterday, which drove him to drink in excess. Sherlock had also left the drunk and unconscious man upright in an armchair for a whole night. Now, the hangover was overtaking his friend, and he could do nothing to stop it. Looking a little downcast, he nodded. "Take some aspirin," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, by the way."

"Oh?" John looked taken aback. Sherlock never apologized for anything. "What for?"

"For leaving you seated instead of taking you to bed."

John's eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Oh. Really? Well... thanks for the thought, I suppose. Why didn't you, then?" He squinted at Sherlock with pained eyes. Sherlock could tell the light was hurting him.

"You distracted me from my work with your drunken blabber." Sherlock's stomach lurched. That was one way of putting it, he thought, but right now was not the time for a full confession.

"What? Oh, Sherlock, did I say anything embarrassing? God, now that I think about it, I don't even remember getting home last night. Damn it. I should know better than this." He rubbed his eyes with one hand, and his neck with the other. "Ugh. So, tell me. How was I?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Intolerable," he said without even blinking. "Now, I really must be off. I'll text you with any particular developments." And at that, Sherlock left the room before his flat mate could object or question him for further details. They could have that conversation _later_. Now, he needed to speak with the surviving victim now lying traumatized in a hospital bed. He thought disdainfully that he would probably be expected to show some sensitivity. He was not looking forward to that.

Indeed, when he arrived at the hospital, he found Lestrade waiting for him. The look he was giving was a warning one. "Now, Sherlock, when you see her... please remember that she has been the victim of a seriously violent rape and beating."

Sherlock sniffed. "You want me to be sensitive. I get it."

"Do you?" Lestrade looked incredulous.

"Of course." Sherlock shook his coat off and handed it to Lestrade without looking at him. He took a deep breath, and nodded. Lestrade opened the door for him, and he entered the hospital room.

The woman was lying quite still on her bed. Her face was twisted with an unseen horror. Sherlock felt something, then: a strike of pity and dread in his heart. She looked so horrified and traumatized, Sherlock actually did not want to upset her. It was something he'd never cared about before, but after experiencing sexual need for the first time in his memory, Sherlock felt physically sick at the idea of what had happened to this woman. Sexuality was a confusing thing, and the accompanying feelings were even slightly painful; after last night, Sherlock did not even want to _think_ about someone being forced into something that horrifying. It was too terrible.

Then, without a second thought, Sherlock backed out of the room. "Wha-" Lestrade stared after him, looking surprised. His gentle eyes widened. "Sherlock, what's the matter with you?"

"I..." Sherlock was panicking. What was happening to him? He threw himself into a chair in the hall, breathing heavily. What _was_ this?

"Sherlock..." Lestrade closed the door to the woman's room, and sat beside the consulting detective. "Sherlock, are you... are you having a panic attack?"

The man shook his head. His heart was racing. His head was pounding. His breathing was unstable, and his hands were shaking. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, but he knew, in fact, that this _was_ absolutely a minor panic attack. Why was this happening to him? This was a _horrible_ feeling. He wished it would go away. He had dealt with rapists before, and it had never affected him like this, so... was it all the result of this new awakening in his body? Was he becoming more empathetic? It had to be John's fault. It _had_ to be. _Damn_ John.

"Sherlock, we could really use you on this one. If you're having trouble..."

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "I don't need to talk to her. All I needed was that moment. I could see everything you'll need."

"But..."

"No." He cut the inspector off sharply. "No. _Trust me_."

* * *

><p>"John!" Sherlock was standing outside St. Bart's, his mobile at his ear. The wind was loud, and his coat was flapping around his knees. A chill ran up his trouser legs, but the cold was not bothering him. He was warmed by the thrill of the new developments to the case. His conversation with Lestrade had been most illuminating as he'd gone over the new evidence out loud with him. "John, we're almost there!"<p>

"Well, you sound happy."

"Ah, John. Of course I am! I know where he'll be. We're on our way to arrest him now."

"Fantastic, Sherlock!"

"Meet me."

* * *

><p>John hobbled sweetly across the street to the spot Sherlock had told him. Sherlock watched him come with a smile on his face. He could tell that John's head was still ailing him, and that John had opted for pancakes and not the eggs he'd wanted. "And how were your pancakes?" he said.<p>

The doctor blinked at him. The sun was obviously bothering his eyes. This was the downside of excessive alcohol consumption, Sherlock noted. "Amazing."

Sherlock smirked. He loved impressing his companion. "Obvious," he said.

"So where is the killer, Sherlock?"

"In for questioning already. It was absurdly simple." Sherlock turned on the spot and entered the police station with John at his heels. "I thought you'd like to be present for it. I know how you enjoy the outcomes of cases."

John smiled, and it sent a thrill to Sherlock's stomach. "I do," he agreed solemnly. "I always like seeing what your brilliance can do. I love catching the guy."

"Yes, I know you do." Sherlock grinned as they made their way through the station.

As they approached the room, John's breath caught upon sight of the window. "That's him?" he asked. Sherlock loved the eagerness John always brought to every solution. He always wanted to know the details, and that pleased Sherlock- even if it was just for his damn blog.

"Yes, that's him." They stood before the observation window. The killer was tall and slender- handsome, even. He was charming in his way, and wore glasses. He looked like the sort of man you might trust without thinking about it. Very ordinary and professional in appearance. Lestrade was listening to him talk with an impassive expression, while the man threw his hands in the air, looking exasperated. He was clearly emphasizing his fictitious reasons why he could not possibly be the killer.

"How did you know it was him?" John asked, not taking his eyes from the criminal behind the glass.

Sherlock sighed. "I observed a victim of his who got away."

"Did you talk to her?"

There was a moment of silence. "No," Sherlock said in a low grumble. "But everything I needed was clear to me upon observation."

"Had she been...?"

"Yes." Sherlock's voice cracked.

"Oh, god." John's face contorted. He was so empathetic, and had such a big heart. Sherlock usually could never understand it, though this time the case had struck a particular chord with him. "It's probably best you didn't talk with her, then. You probably would have just traumatized her further. Still, it could have been useful. I mean, what if you got the wrong man? Didn't you try-?"

Sherlock cut him off. "I couldn't," he said quickly.

His companion was taken aback. "You... couldn't? Couldn't? What d'you mean, you couldn't?"

He let out a deep sigh before turning to face his friend completely. "Sexuality is a strange, complicated, and poignant thing. The idea of someone taking advantage of that... made me physically ill."

"You panicked." John was deducing on his own, now. Very nice.

"I did not say that."

"But you _did_," he said quickly. "I can see it on your face! You panicked!" Neither of them said anything for a minute. "_Why_ did you panic, though? You never panic. Except that one time, but... that was drugs."

Sherlock glared at his friend. "I have told you," he snapped. "It sickened me."

"That doesn't explain it." There was a laugh in John's tone. "Nothing gets to you."

He sighed. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to tell John about last night. "Last night," he said slowly, keeping their eyes locked, "I had kind of... an awakening. It was a sort of... physical epiphany, you could say."

"What d'you mean?" John looked wary, and actually a little nervous. Did he remember? Sherlock observed the doctor tensing up, and his breath growing a little more shallow. "Sherlock?"

"You were very drunk, John." He raised his eyebrows. "_Very_ drunk. You said and did some things which gave me... unprecedented reactions. Something unfamiliar happened inside me, and... I can't shake it." He was being vague, but he hoped John would catch on quickly.

As he watched the doctor carefully, it seemed he did. His eyes suddenly got very wide. "I..." He clapped a hand to his sweet mouth. "Oh. _Oh_." He turned away then to look back at the killer, who was now listening to Lestrade say something with a most serious expression. Poor John was blushing furiously. "Shit."

Sherlock could not help the chuckle that escaped him. "Embarrassed?"

"Well that depends on what _exactly_ I said last night."

"That you find me..." A policeman passed by them, and he paused until there was no longer anyone in earshot. "You find me sexy," he finished coolly. He smiled as John's entire face became a magnificent shade of red. "Then you grabbed me," he continued in his lowest tone. "You..." He desperately wanted to say _you kissed me_, but something was stopping him. A weird rage was building inside him-an intense physical need that he had only experienced last night. He wanted to hold John, to kiss him and explore his body and have John satisfy him physically. It scared him again. Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling highly uncomfortable. His pulse was rising again.

Then, just at the right moment, Lestrade stood up. "Ah," Sherlock said, wiping his mind clear with the blink of an eye to focus again on the case at hand. As Lestrade exited the room, looking flustered, Sherlock approached him voraciously. "Have we got him?"

Lestrade sighed. "Well it's definitely him. I can just see it in those sneaky little eyes of his."

"Well that's something," Sherlock scoffed. Lestrade shot him an annoyed look.

"I'm afraid we'll really need more evidence if we want to hold him, though. We can't keep him more than seventy-two hours with what you've given us, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"Get a warrant. Search his flat. I know he'll have his trophies under his bed."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Trophies?"

"A man like that? Have you seen him? Of course he'd take trophies. Besides, didn't you notice the considerably shorter length of the thumbnails on each victim?"

"Nail clippings?" Lestrade gaped. "That's disturbing."

"Everything about him is disturbing," Sherlock reminded him coldly. "Get a warrant. Trust me. He's a traditionalist; I can assure you, they'll be in a small box under his bed. If not there, then his closet or his bedside drawer. They'd be no where else. He's too typical for that, though he'd certainly hope otherwise. Like most psychopaths, he thinks he's a one-of-a-kind."

"Now that much is obvious," said the inspector, hiking up his trousers and looking baffled. "We can hold him for a while, but if we can't get anything soon, I'm afraid we'll have to let the sick bastard go."

Sherlock sneered miserably. "It is of the utmost importance that you get that warrant, Lestrade." His eyes gleaming, Sherlock glanced at the man in the questioning room whose fingerprints were now being taken. "If you don't, I assure you he'll go straight for our living victim."

"She has a name, you know."

"It's useless to me" he said dismissively. "Using her name will not help make her any less of a target for him. He wants her dead. He needs her dead. He is a man of habit, and he needs to complete his pattern or he will go mad." A darkness seemed to cross Sherlock's expression. "He needs it, and he'll have it..." He looked furiously at the inspector. "Just get that warrant."


	3. First Touches

_Told you chapter three would come quickly. There's a little smut in this one for you guys. A little more plot-type stuff will be coming in the next one, I think. I'm really shit with plot, so I apologize in advance, but I'll do my best._

_Enjoy! Let me hear your thoughts!_

* * *

><p>The cab ride home was a tense one. Whilst staring out the window, Sherlock could still sense John's anxiety. He could practically smell it. He could feel from the movement of the seat that the doctor was having trouble not fidgeting and shifting around awkwardly. He said nothing about it, though. He wanted John to say something first.<p>

But he never did; not until they were on their way up the stairs into 221b. As Sherlock put the key in the lock, John finally spoke. "I'm sorry about the case," he said.

"They'll get a warrant," Sherlock said adamantly.

"Yes, of course," said John quickly. A moment of silence passed between them as they entered the flat and Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. "So, Sherlock," John said slowly, taking a seat in his armchair, "what was it that I said or did last night, exactly?"

Sherlock smirked, reaching into the cushions where he knew a pack of nicotine patches had been stashed. "You told me I was sexy," he said smoothly, attaching a sticker to his forearm. He continued to affix his skin with the things as he went on. "To be more specific, you told me I was 'damn sexy,' and said it was sexy when I ordered you around. You also called me gorgeous." There. Five patches. That should do it for today.

John swore loudly. "You said I grabbed you," he said, his voice shrill with anxiety. "What happened?"

"You fell," Sherlock said, closing his eyes and letting the calming nicotine sink into his system. "I helped you up, and you grabbed hold of me and would not let go. Then..." He took a deep breath. "You kissed me."

John groaned. Sherlock could practically hear his friend dropping his reddening face into his hands. "No," he said hoarsely. "I didn't. I couldn't have."

"Oh, I'm afraid you did." Sherlock opened his eyes to glance at his friend. "You triggered something horrible, John. I have never felt any sort of..._ biological desire_-" The words were thick with disgust. "-Ever before in my life. It is... awfully distracting from more important things, though still oddly... _pleasant._"

His friend's eyebrows were high on his face. His cheeks were turning impossible colors that made Sherlock smile. "Wha-" John shook his head, clearly sinking in his shame. "God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I never... I mean... I shouldn't have... God, I'm just so sorry."

"I assume it was merely a drunken indiscretion," Sherlock went on. "I'm afraid, however, that even if that is the case, you disturbed something latent in me that won't quiet. I need it to go away. But how?" His brow furrowed.

"It wasn't," John said quickly. He bit his lip as Sherlock stared at him, his face going slack with surprise. "I mean... yeah. I mean, I was drunk, but... I was obviously honest. I do think you're gorgeous." This was said in the most timid voice Sherlock had ever heard fall from John's lips. He was so shy. It was endearing. Sherlock, feeling quite sedated by the sudden flow of nicotine, smiled and sat up to face his flat mate.

"I didn't know which outcome I wanted. To be honest, I think I hoped it was just the whiskey talking. But... I find myself glad."

John's motion implied that his breath had caught for a moment. "Oh," he said lightly on an exhale. Silence fell, and John simply sat back in his armchair while Sherlock stared at him, observing his colleague. John's mind was clearly racing. His eyes were moving subtly back and forth as he scanned his thoughts, trying to make his own mind make sense. Sherlock knew the look well. He smiled as he watched it cross John's expression. He wore it well, he thought. The blonde man looked fantastic when frazzled and contemplative.

Suddenly Sherlock jerked back to reality. His own thoughts were concerning him. He swore, and stood dramatically without warning. John flinched. He began to pace. "John," he said warningly. "I don't understand."

"What is it, Sherlock? What don't you understand?"

"_This!_" he hissed. "My thoughts; my feelings; my physical urges."

John swallowed hard. "Your... physical...?"

"Yes, urges, John. Keep up."

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I just... well... It's just hard for me to believe that you are having any... I mean... I always thought you were... y'know... _asexual_."

Sherlock glared. "So did I. This discovery is unprecedented. I hate it."

John sighed, and stood so that he and Sherlock were on the same level. "You're nervous," he commented. "So am I."

"This is just so new," Sherlock said wildly, throwing his arms up.

"I know." John's eyes were soft.

Sherlock paused in his pacing to look at John. He felt the nicotine pulse in him, and a relaxed feeling came over him as he blinked slowly at his friend. The shorter man strode to stand face to face with him. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of John at this proximity. "How do you stand feeling this so frequently? It's horrible."

"With most people, I just make it clear, and something either becomes of it or it doesn't. With you? You're impossible. I've had to keep it hidden. I barely stand it at all, to be honest, Sherlock. I want you all the time."

Sherlock's throat felt tight. He swallowed. "How do you live with that? How do you hide it so well? I never even..."

John laughed. "Are you saying I actually managed to hide something from you-the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective? Wow!" He laughed deeply, sending a thrill through Sherlock's torso. "I'm impressed with myself now."

"Don't get cocky," Sherlock snarled, leaning close to John.

John's breath was warm on his face. It made his heart pound. "I don't know what's going to happen between us if I do this," John whispered, "but... may I kiss you?"

Sherlock's chest felt an intense pull, like the strike of a match within his ribcage. It hurt. He felt lightheaded. Breathless, Sherlock nodded. The doctor's soft lips touched his so lightly, he thought he might fall over from the sheer delicacy of it. He inhaled deeply as the gap closed between their mouths.

_Ah_- it was _bliss_.

Warmth spread from his lips throughout his entire body. The pressure of John's mouth overwhelmed his senses. He felt immobilized by this sober kiss, as though developing a sudden need to memorize the sensation. But John's gentle hand on his chest stirred him again. His insides raged.

The monster that had been born last night rose quickly from its sleep and prepared itself to pillage. Sherlock delved his tongue far into John's mouth, exploring greedily. The passion was enflaming. The smaller man whimpered at the intensity of the action, and the sound brought deep pleasure to Sherlock's loins, though he wasn't sure why.

Sherlock let out an involuntary growl. His hand moved without his say-so. He clutched the back of John's head, pressing it closer as though to devour him. John squeaked pitifully against him, so Sherlock released his mouth. He did not let go of his head, however. Their lips were still touching lightly. John cleared his throat. "Well," he said. "That's..."

"Yeah." Sherlock smiled.

"Interesting."

"Quite something."

"Indeed." John's eyes searched his desperately. "So," he sighed. "What does this mean for us?"

The detective shook his head. Their noses nuzzled one another in consequence, and John's cheeks pinkened. "How should I know? Does it have to change anything?"

"No," John said quickly. The anxiety in his voice and body language was evident. "Let's not let it. We've got a good thing going, haven't we?"

Sherlock breathed in, inhaling his friend deeply. "Yes. We do." He could smell how aroused John was, and it sent a deep shiver of need to his groin. Was this what it meant to be sexually excited? He really wasn't sure how that was supposed to feel. It was all so intimidating. He was not used to being uninformed about something. His only experience with that was limited knowledge of the solar system-and that had only ever filled him with annoyance in others, not fear for himself as this did. What if this ruined everything? What if John felt Sherlock could not give him what he needed at some point, and left him? Sherlock did not want him to go. John was his.

"John," Sherlock said throatily, enjoying the name on his lips. "_John_."

"I can't believe this." John's tone was shrill with disbelief and an obvious joy. "I can't believe this is coming from you, from last night, from... I don't know, it's just... it's incredible, really."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed hazily. His mind was still intently zeroed in on the mouth at hand. "_More_."

He dove onto him, consuming his friend's mouth from the inside out, tasting his lips and his tongue and his teeth with all the energy he had. His self restraint was failing him. Any of his old reserves were crumbling now. His lust was overpowering.

Sherlock grunted uncontrollably into that sweet mouth, and the vibrations of it caused his small friend to tremble. A feral beast was rising in Sherlock, and it was untamable.

John tugged his mouth away for just a second to mutter "God, those lips" in a light moan before crashing back into Sherlock so their tongues could dance again. The passion was heavy between them, and undeniable. How Sherlock had never observed John's desire for him before, he could not imagine. It was so clear, so intense, so hot. His trousers were tight, and he felt John growing hard against his own thigh. The feeling was a bit disconcerting. Anxiety flickered inside him.

Suddenly John stopped. Sherlock's lips ached as soon as John had left them. "Sherlock," he said huskily. "You're shaking."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm... just surprised. That doesn't mean I don't want this."

"It's new for you, though, isn't it?"

"Of course." Sherlock sniffed, and straightened his posture haughtily. "You are my very first, and my only. I can't really imagine wanting anyone else."

"Wait a minute." John backed away, letting his arms drop. Sherlock wished instantly that those arms were still around him. "I wasn't..." He looked a little sick, going fiercely pale. "I wasn't your _first kiss_, was I?"

"Of course you were," Sherlock said. "Obviously. I have never wanted physical closeness before last night. I am not exactly a sexual creature, John. You are the only one I've ever wanted."

"But..." John clapped a hand to his mouth, sadness filling his eyes. "And I don't even remember it. Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I can't believe I did that, and I didn't even think..."

Sherlock tutted soothingly. "So sentimental," he said with a sigh. "It was just fine as it was. No need to get uptight." He inched closer to his friend. "Now listen here, John. You've awoken an unexpected need in me. I have never experienced this before, and I..." He paused, shifting a little. "Well, I don't really..."

John cut him off with soft fingers to his lips. "I get it, Sherlock." He gave him the most tender look. "I'll take care of you." Sherlock shivered at the husky voice with which John delivered the sentiment. It sent a chill to his groin he had not expected. John knew it, somehow. Was it instinct he had gained from his past sexual experiences? Sherlock didn't know. He didn't know anything that was happening to his body at the moment. It was all unfamiliar. He felt somehow disconnected from himself as John reached out a hand and placed it over the front of Sherlock's trousers. The contact made Sherlock gasp, and then clear his throat as though to cover it up. He felt embarrassed already. "Is this what you want?" John whispered. The doctor's warm exhales tickled Sherlock's eyelids. The detective's mouth was slightly parted, his breathing heavy with excitement.

He nodded.

The good doctor squeezed. The taller man flinched a little as John gripped Sherlock's cock through the fabric of his tight trousers. "John," he sighed. "_Yes_."

"What do you want?"

Sherlock blinked. He stared at his friend curiously, remembering the way John had said _You're sexy when you order me around_. Sherlock's insides rumbled at the thought. "I want you," he said, a little bewildered.

"No need to be embarrassed, Sherlock. I'm embarrassed, too, y'know. You're my friend. This is just as weird for me."

"Are you saying you don't want me?" Sherlock croaked. "Because I would hope..."

"No, no, of course I do!" John said hurriedly, and Sherlock relaxed. "Let me show you, please. Tell me what you want me to do for you. I have wanted you for so long... I'll do _anything_ you want, Sherlock. I'll give you everything I have to give. I'm _yours_."

Sherlock growled, and captured John's mouth hungrily. The spark ignited, and John's hand began to move. He was rubbing the length of Sherlock shamelessly. The two men writhed against one another, their passion running wild, pulsing in Sherlock's veins more feverishly than any drug ever had or ever could. He wanted to be inside of John. He craved it more than he thought possible, almost as much as he craved a good mystery. He grunted.

"I want you," he growled during a pause for breath before their mouths pressed together again. Sherlock dominated with his tongue. During the next breath, he said, "I want you on your knees for me... I want you to become mine." He held John's face between his hands and continued to devour his sweet mouth. They continued like this for a few minutes, John still rubbing Sherlock while submitting his mouth totally, until the dominant detective simply couldn't stand the pressure around his groin anymore. "_Now_," he demanded, and forced his friend to kneel with a hand on his blonde head. John's knees hit the floor for the second time in two nights, and this time he pulled a face that indicated he was definitely feeling the bruises from last night's fall.

He undid his trousers with fumbling fingers. His heart was pounding dramatically. His nerves were crawling. John's mouth looked so perfect, so tempting. It was gorgeously red from their rough kisses, and Sherlock longed desperately to shove himself between those lips and enjoy the warm depths of his friend. John locked eyes with the detective, whose breath caught. Sherlock's eyes were searching, a little worried.

"Sh," John cooed. "I've got you." Sherlock felt an intense fire build in the pit of his stomach as John opened his lips wide and accepted him. Sherlock hissed at the warm, wet contact. The pleasure was something unimaginable. Was this ecstasy the reason people lied, cheated, and killed? Was this what people died for? This sensation? He understood it a little. He would give anything to have this feeling never cease.

John's tongue calmed him with its skillful rotations. Sherlock felt sure he must be melting. How could he possibly still be standing? He curled his fingers into John's hair and held on tightly, grounding himself as he felt maddeningly lightheaded. He put a hand to his forehead to brush his hair out of his eyes, and found himself to be slightly damp with sweat. His eyes were rolling back uncontrollably, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out John's name eagerly; to keep from demanding that John become total slave to his cock, that he bend over and allow himself to be ravished. The unexpected dominance that rose in him was terrifying, but it also made him harder.

This was so bizarre it was unreal, Sherlock thought; yet, it really was happening! His best mate was, in _fact_, taking his cock down his throat-and _oh_, Sherlock sighed: he certainly was taking it _most_ excellently. It was all he could do not to moan to his stony heart's content. He held on for all he was worth until John ran his hands gingerly up Sherlock's thighs on their way to join his mouth at work.

"Oh!" Sherlock cried, surprise and pleasure flooding him swiftly. "Oh... John... I can't..."

"You're fine, Sherlock. Do you need to sit down?"

"I... do not..." Sherlock did not need anything anymore except to come right into John's willing mouth. He wanted to claim that orifice-to own it, so no one else could have it. He wanted John to be exclusively his for this purpose, to serve him when he needed this and to never date women again.

Suddenly, he was raging with overprotectiveness. He growled throatily, took John's head in his hands, and thrust deep inside him. The man gagged. Sherlock fucked his mouth with unpracticed wild motions until his violent orgasm racked him.

When he came it was with a great shudder, and John made wild sputtering sounds as he shot down his throat. The extent of the ecstasy was something he could not have foreseen. His was overwhelmed by the blissful waves that met him, followed by the sweetest calm. He had never experienced such a quiet in his head before, and _oh_, it was wonderful. He wanted to revel in it, to hold onto that feeling as long as he could. It was nearly a minute before Sherlock recovered the logic to withdraw.

All the noise returned as he left John's mouth. He was quite satisfied, and his mind was already starting to wander. He felt more prepared than ever to solve a case. He zipped his trousers, and flopped onto the sofa before John had even gotten to his knees. "John," he said sleepily, panting. "I..." He looked at his doctor with heavy eyelids. "Thank you."

John crawled to his side and sat on the floor by the sofa to hold his hand. The touch was warm. "Any time, Sherlock." His breathing was heavy, too, and Sherlock enjoyed the obvious symptoms of his arousal. He sensed a strong devotion from everything in John's body language. It gave Sherlock a deep satisfaction.

"I feel good," Sherlock admitted breathlessly, a rather silly grin plastered on his face. His post-orgasm high mixed well with his nicotine, and he felt on top of the world. "I feel better. Like I could do anything."

John was smiling, too.

"We should do this more often. It is quite invigorating," Sherlock said eagerly.

John laughed. "Indeed?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighed. "I can't _wait _to get my hands on another case, now!"

His friend patted the back of his hand gently. "You don't even know if this one is over yet, Sherlock. Be patient."

"Patience is boring," Sherlock spat, feeling any trace of drowsiness start to leave him. "Besides, there's no way I was wrong. The man in custody will be ours by the late afternoon. Just wait."

"I'm sure he will." John gave a wry laugh, and began pushing himself to his feet. "I'm going to clean myself up," he said, blushing vividly. He trotted to the kitchen. Sherlock watched him go, and let his eyes linger on his friend's backside as he ran a wet paper towel over his sticky chin and neck. Oh, how Sherlock would love to get his hands on that arse and claim it just as he'd claimed John's mouth today.

Then panic struck Sherlock again. What would he do if he_ did_ get his hands on him? How did one initiate sexual intercourse, anyway? How did one go about getting it done? Weren't there things involved, like lubricant? Sherlock understood the basic logistics, but when it came down to it... _well_. Thinking about the details was giving him a case of anxiety again.

He swallowed, lost in thought, and at that very moment, he felt his phone vibrate. Relief flooded him, pulling him out of his reverie. It was from Lestrade. As his eyes scanned the screen, his heart sank. "John," he said, his voice dangerously low. "John," he called again, much louder.

"Yes, Sherlock? What? I'm right here, you don't need to yell."

"It's our killer," he growled, standing furiously and rushing to grab his coat. "Damn it all."

"Sherlock, slow down." John hurried to him, and took him by the arms, trying to calm him. "Explain."

With a deep breath, Sherlock spoke. "What I deduced was definitely fact," he hissed, "but the department would call what I gathered merely 'circumstantial.' It was enough for a warrant, but with no physical evidence..."

"And didn't they find anything in his flat?"

"NO." Rage twisted Sherlock's expression into a fearsome one. "They found nothing. Nothing under his bed. Nothing in his drawers. He must have covered his tracks somehow. But how?"

John's mouth hung open in disbelief. "No," he said, sounding horrified. "Oh god. They can't let that bastard go free."

Sherlock sneered, looking like a wild demon. "Not for another day or so. But even if they do," he snarled. "I am not one of them. I can take him into _my own hands_. I can do _anything_." Indeed, his confidence was at its peak. It did not even scathe him to notice that John looked slightly afraid. "Come, John!" he ordered. Sherlock turned and left before John had even snatched up his jacket. He followed as best he could as the great stern genius sped away, his coat rustling around his thighs and his hair gently ruffled. He looked heroic and was, to John, the very image of perfection.


	4. The Chase

_Finally got back to this story. Yay! I hope it works itself out as it goes along. :) You should know that I haven't yet bothered to edit this chapter, so... yeah._

_Also, a reminder: the villains here are rapists, so if it upsets you to read about that even just mentioned in passing, I give you this fair warning._

* * *

><p>Lestrade's face immediately betrayed his frazzled state. He looked flustered and miserable. "Sherlock, thank god," he said, relief washing over him as he spotted the consulting detective and his doctor approaching. "We know he's our man, but there's nothing here. Really nothing. Maybe you can give us something we can use. I really hope you can." His worry was evident.<p>

"First mistake," Sherlock said, his eyes sweeping the sitting room of the flat in question. "He's not your _only_ man."

"He had a partner? How do you know?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, so you think a disorganized and untidy man cleaned his sitting room perfectly and thoroughly all by himself since being arrested, do you?"

Lestrade's mouth hung open slightly. "You can't know that it was cleaned after he was arrested."

"I can," Sherlock assured him. "Also, I promise you I'd know the shoe prints of every officer you've got by now, and there are two impressions I can count on the mat we entered on which are unfamiliar to me. One can probably be matched to the man himself, the other is too big to be a woman's and as is obvious from this room our man clearly lived alone, so, conclusion-a friend, colleague, or partner. Also, furniture set up for two to converse easily. Two coasters prepared on that side table. This man was here a lot. No one who is as untidy as our man is (judging by his disorganized bookshelf and undone laundry on his bedroom floor that I can spot even from here) cleans their sitting room this well unless they've got something to hide. I can still smell the bleach just under the lemon cleaner which means it has to have been done today, recently-certainly more recently than Mr. Devonshire could have done, as he was out in the early morning and in custody before ever getting home. His partner has been here. It explains why the trophies are no where to be found, also. All this..." Sherlock spun round and dropped to the floor, crawling along his belly, examining the floor panels. "All this indicates that the crimes were done here. That our man was absolutely the killer, but possibly not the only physical assailant, and surely not the brains of it all. They were doing this together... methodically... for fun... and I imagine it was all for the enjoyment of this second man, the man who planned it all, who cleaned it all up."

John shivered. "I don't like the sound of that," he said. "Do you think you can find him?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You insult me," he said, flashing John a smirk from his spot on the floor before continuing to stare into the wood as though it was whispering secrets to him. John watched as his friend whipped out a little yellow envelope from his coat pocket, and chipped away at some splinters, gathering them up into the paper. He tucked it away, then dropped his cheek to the floor and sniffed deeply. His eyes were glazed with excitement. John stood back and watched him, enjoying the sight. Oh, how he loved to watch Sherlock work like this. It made him tingle. The genius turned him on. With a sigh, the doctor began to look around the room himself while Sherlock continued his hunt at their feet.

John shook his head as he looked at the room around him. He could never see everything his friend might see, but he had enough deductive skills of his own to figure out the basics. "I don't get it," he said. "Why would two men sweep women off the street? Why these men? Why these women? I don't understand their motive."

Lestrade shrugged. "Well when it's one man, I would assume he's just crazy. But if Sherlock is right... if there are two killers... then there's got to be some kind of plan; some kind of ulterior motive."

Sherlock stood suddenly, straightening out the front of his jacket. "The man who lives here is an introvert. Sadistic and psychopathic but not smart enough nor confident enough to act out his fantasies without help. The other man takes sadistic and voyeuristic pleasure from helping Mr. Devonshire, from watching him rape and kill, and then cleaning up after him. He gets off on it, I'd say. From the traces of blood under the wood, it is obvious that this cleaning job was done haphazardly. He was obviously here cleaning up after Mr. Devonshire after the beating this morning. When she escaped and he ran after her, our second man must have stayed behind to clean up." Sherlock started walking slowly around the room, leaning very close to the walls, his eyes narrowed. They seemed to bring no merit, for he then turned on his heel and moved deeper into the flat.

The DI and the doctor followed him, watching closely in wonder. John found himself dazzled as his friend bounced forward, absorbed by his own mind. All he could think was how beautiful the man looked when he was excited about a case. The detective positively glowed. The sight made John's blood run hot, but he ignored the feeling and followed his friend's steps into the bedroom.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's feet hit the pavement hard as the chase commenced. He was flying forward, adrenaline pounding in his temples. The second man- a fierce looking dark haired man with fearfully green eyes- was almost caught. He was slippery, but almost no one was slippery enough to evade the keen observation of Sherlock Holmes' genius.<p>

They knew he was an ex-soldier (like John, Sherlock noted), that he wore size 11 shoes, that he's a neat freak and a psychopath with some kind of leg injury, probably incurred during the rape. It was probably this injury, Sherlock had concluded, which had enabled the girl to escape. This second man was much faster and stronger than the first who was in custody, but Sherlock was able to keep up with him more easily with his injury. The conclusion had been drawn that the man on the run organized the kidnappings and tied the girls down with rope found behind some boxes in captured man's closet. It all took place in Mr. Devonshire's flat, of course; the second man was manipulative enough to convince the him to use his place.

Sherlock had tracked him down, and now they were running at top speed down the streets of the city. They weaved through crowds, hunting the man down as he fled. Sherlock was faster. He was catching up. John fell behind him as he ran, but not by much. He could still hear the pacing of his flighty steps standing out from the pedestrians around them, and even pick out his ragged breathing out of the crowd.

The man had a gun on him, squirreled away in his breast pocket. Sherlock knew it, though he wasn't sure John did. But John would be fine. He had faced guns before. The doctor had laid his life down for Sherlock in the past, and he knew that loyalty was unwavering; in fact, after what had transpired between them, he was quite convinced that their bond had actually grown.

He swore under his breath as the man turned a corner, but Sherlock was hot on his heels, and spend 'round the bend nearly as fast as the criminal. John was seconds behind him. He heard his doctor's breath hitch those few feet away as his coat billowed behind him with the wind. This street was a lot emptier. With a burst of energy, he sped up. If he had stopped, Sherlock might have noticed that the soles of his feet were blistering, but he didn't. This man was too dangerous to stop for even a second. He needed to be taken down now before his friend went free and they returned to their old habits. An uncharacteristic rage bubbled in him as he egged himself on. He could not even entertain the thought. If these men walked, after what they did- after what they took advantage of- Sherlock thought blindly that he might just kill them himself. He was seeing red at this point. He could not erase from his mind his thoughts of John touching him, and how horrible it would be to be touched that way after refusing. How could a person ruin something so decidedly intimate by turning it into torment? He could not fathom it. It drove him to a feral anger that he could not remember experiencing in his life before.

The blood was thudding furiously in his ears and a terrible snarl came out of him. The man seemed to be getting slower; he was running out of breath, and even through his survival instinct and adrenaline, the exhaustion was taking hold. This run was a lot of pressure on his cut leg. As he glanced over his shoulder to judge the distance between himself and his assailants, Sherlock caught a merest glimpse of his face.

He deduced immediately. Almost forty, the man had not slept in at least two days. He had not eaten since the previous day, either. He was clearly an insomniac with a blood lust for pain and sexual torment.

They had come to a deserted street. Sherlock lunged, succeeding in wrapping his arms around the fleeing man. A violent scuffle broke out. John paused to catch his breath, watching the two go at it for a few minutes before leaping forward to wrap his muscular arm around the criminal's neck. The man choked, a temple bobbing in his forehead. Sherlock used the opportunity to head-butt him. With his hands pinned under the wide-bodied rapist, it was his only means of defense. The unfortunate result was that his skull was forced back- right into John's face. A _snap_ shot through the air, and Sherlock felt his stomach drop a little. John's nose was broken. The two fell off of him, backward onto the walkway, and Sherlock scrambled to his feet, panting.

"I'm sorry!" he huffed. But John could not respond. His face was bleeding profusely. The obviously concussed man was getting to his feet, too. The gun was in his hand. He was waving it around almost nonchalantly. He looked confused.

"Put the gun down," Sherlock warned. "You are not one for guns and I know it. Put it away. You wouldn't want to hurt anyone this way."

"But you'll get me," the man hissed. His eyes were sparkling with madness. "I won't go away. I was careful._ I _was so careful. It was all him that did it. It's his fault she got away. It's his fault you're after me now. I was _so careful_."

Sherlock shook his head. "I know you were. Just put the gun down."

"No," he said. Still, he didn't point the gun. Just twirled it around in his fingers languidly. He was starting to back away, looking on the verge of running again. He seemed torn between fleeing and taking a shot at Sherlock. His mind was clearly racing. Sherlock knew, though. He always knew. He knew the man was going to run in approximately fifteen more seconds, so he took the chance- he leapt. They struggled. John was fighting to his feet, his fingers cupped over his bleeding nose.

Suddenly Sherlock found himself thrown back, and he was gazing straight down the barrel of the weapon. He didn't so much as flinch. "You're sick," he growled. "You'll always be sick. You like to watch people hurt. Do you think you'll get the same satisfaction with that thing?" Sherlock's eyes flitted to the gun, then fixed steadfast on his eyes again. "You're never gonna do it." A flash of doubt crossed the criminal's face.

Over his shoulder, Sherlock saw John regaining his strength. He looked like he was about to pounce on him again. Sherlock's eyes must have given him away, because the rapist suddenly turned, and the gun faced John, then. The ex-army doctor raised his hands in surrender. This was _unacceptable_. Sherlock would not have John in danger. No one was allowed to touch his John. No. _Not his John_. _Damn_ John.

Sherlock's hand was on the man's wielding arm before another move could be made. The nose of the gun was pointed to the sky when it went off. Sherlock wrestled him down, and had him almost under his control when a second bullet was fired.

With a growl, Sherlock kicked the gun out of his hand, pressed him face-down against the pavement, and held the man's wrists behind his back with his knees. "Stay down, you disgusting bastard," he snarled in his deepest and most dangerous voice. The sirens were already whirring in the still air. An uncontrollable grin crossed him. "Ha. It's done, John. They'll take him, and it'll all be over."

John responded with a groan. Sherlock glanced over.

His heart dropped.

The sight harrowed Sherlock's very bones. He had never seen John injured before. Never. There was a great, bloody gash in the left sleeve of John's coat, and his shoulder was turning a deep brown color as the blood soaked through his clothes. "John..." Sherlock felt his face drain in horror. His sturdy hands were trembling. He wanted to run to John, to hold him, to check that he was okay- but for now, he had to keep the criminal pinned. At least he could tell it was not a fatal wound. It had just nicked the top of John's bicep, just by the shoulder wound he'd received in Afghanistan. His face was slack, his eyes wide and watery. He looked shocked and numb. Sherlock's heart rate had never been faster. Was his John flashing back to war time? Sherlock could read the trauma written all over his face.

The world seemed to be moving too slowly. "Damn it," Sherlock mumbled."Hurry up, hurry up." John's eyelids were starting to droop. The sirens were getting closer.

When the police pulled up beside them and rushed out of their cars, Sherlock's anxiety was at its breaking point. The minute a cop had hands on the criminal, Sherlock released him and flew to John's side without a second to lose. "John,' He croaked. "John. Stay with me."

"I'm... fine," John breathed. He was pale, sweating, and losing consciousness quickly. With a short examination, Sherlock made sure he was in no imminent danger. He wasn't. The only thing that threatened John now, really, was the blood loss which was fast stealing him into a deep sleep.

He took his limp hand and gripped it tightly. "You're going to be alright, John," he said quietly. "It's really just a graze."

"Yeah..." John said, and a tiny smile spread over his face before finally passing out. Sherlock's feelings of the last couple of days weighed in on him, bubbling to the surface until he could not repress the choked cry that escaped him. With a heavy heart, he pressed John's hand to his own trembling lips and kissed his fingers.

It was Sherlock who cradled John's unconscious body close and carried him into the ambulance, and not once did he let go of that gentle hand.

The entire ride to the hospital and all the way to the surgery room, Sherlock never left John's side.

* * *

><p><em>Hope you enjoyed! Sorry for that end. I have a feeling it'll upset some people.<em>


	5. Wounds and Worry

_Yay! I haven't given up yet! I'm pretty sure there will be just two more chapters left of this story, and that will be all. :) _

_So, this chapter is FULL of fluff. Fluff was practically coming out of my ass when I wrote this, that's how fluffy it is. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p>John's pulse was normal. He was asleep now, but he was okay. Sherlock could feel that his own pulse, on the other hand, was ho where near as level as John's. He sighed, his fingers still lightly touching John's wrist just to be sure. It had taken him nearly the whole evening to calm his breathing, but he still refused to leave John's side. The case was closed, and he had no others, and with nothing to distract him, his concern pulsed in him as tangible as his veins. He never cared. Never. But the intimacy John had shared with him the other day was weighing on Sherlock's senses. The experience had a firm grip on his heart, and now- for John- he cared. He wanted his doctor to be safe and well and walking around with no pain.<p>

He shut his eyes. His physiology was betraying him. His heart rate was high, and his head was pounding. He sighed furiously, frustrated by his own heart. His exhale was so strong, it ruffled John's hair.

When Lestrade's hand found his shoulder, Sherlock actually flinched a little. He had been so absorbed by his own thoughts, he had not realized another person was in the room. "Sorry," said Lestrade quietly. He removed the hand quickly, and stood back. "Sherlock... you know he's going to be alright, don't you? The doctors said..."

"I know." Sherlock's voice was low and steady. It was really more of a rumble than anything else.

"Then why don't you relax? Come have a bite."

Sherlock blinked. "I need to be here."

"Sherlock, he's asleep. He lost a lot of blood and he'll probably be sleeping for a long time. He needs it."

Sherlock swallowed hard. He stared into the unconscious face of John with a wistful expression. A hunger to kiss that soft mouth began to rage in him, but he restrained. He imagined John telling him _Sherlock, this is hardly the appropriate time or place!_ He wanted desperately to crawl into the bed with him and nuzzle there; to close the gap between them so he could be as close as was possible. "I need... to be here when he wakes up. He'll need me."

Lestrade was smiling sourly. "Sherlock," he said, a little cautiously. "You need to eat. John would want you to be taking care of yourself."

Sherlock stared at John, as though memorizing him (as though he didn't already know, by heart, every crevice of his round face). Then, with a solemn downcast expression, he nodded slowly.

"Atta boy." Lestrade took him by the underarm and pulled him to his feet. Sherlock's fingers slipped away from John's wrist, and he felt that his hand was instantly left wanting.

He followed Lestrade out without a word, silently hoping he could return in time for John to wake up and know he had been there for him.

The pub down the street from St. Bart's was small. Lestrade made Sherlock sit, though he grumbled about it. "Here," he said, shoving a bowl of chips in his face. "You must eat. You'll go mad without something to keep you going."

"Transport," Sherlock spat.

Lestrade sighed. "And what would you be if you didn't keep that transport well, eh?" He glared, and held up the bowl again. "Go on."

Sherlock's mind was too occupied to protest. He took a handful of chips in his fist, and stared at them, not really seeing them. He could only see the blood on the corner of his sleeve that belonged to his only friend. This was as daunting a time as the few minutes when John had been rigged with explosives. He hated to see John put in danger by anyone other than himself. Only he could touch John. If anyone else did it, they should fear for their lives. It had been all he could do not to snap the neck of the man he'd had pinned before the police had arrived. He had only not done it because he knew what John would think of him; because he didn't want to go through the nonsense of the law that would surely follow such an action.

He was so lost in his head, he didn't even hear Lestrade speak again. He grunted in response, pretending to have heard. But then Lestrade snapped his fingers, right in his line of vision. "Sherlock? Are you even listening?"

"No." Sherlock did not look at him. He could not erase the image of blood soaking the front of John's coat.

The Inspector sighed. "I know what you're thinking, and I think I know what you could use." He flagged down the bar tender. "Whiskey, straight," he said.

Sherlock glanced up. The amber liquid tinkling into the glass that was pushed towards him jogged his memory to his first kiss: the taste of John's mouth, stained with the sharp flavor of the alcohol. He wanted that again. He wanted the feel of John's tongue (in his mouth, on his skin, around his cock), but would settle, for now, just this. He took the glass in his wide palm, and swiveled it, sighing deeply.

Lestrade patted him awkwardly on the back. "If ever there was a time you could use a drink, I figure it's when your friend's in the hospital. It's on me."

"Friend." Sherlock smiled to himself, and downed the glass in one go.

Sherlock really never drank. Alcohol dulled the senses too much, and he cherished a sharp mind. He certainly was not averse to chemical assistance (the cocaine kept him blissfully high when there was nothing to occupy him, for instance), but the depressant qualities of alcohol were usually something he held distaste for. Right now, however- with his blood rushing and his mind racing worriedly- he felt eager for a bit of dulling.

He pulled a face. The drink went right to his head. His arms felt lighter. With a sigh, he placed the empty glass back down upon the bar. "There you go," Lestrade cooed. "Now, eat." Not really thinking about it, Sherlock stuck a chip into his mouth and chewed absent-mindedly.

From beyond his thoughts, he heard Lestrade's voice call out again, "Another!" The drink was in his hand before he knew it, and he emptied it quickly. The liquid burned his throat, and soothed his mind like a tranquilizer. The sting of the alcohol seemed to gather behind Sherlock's eyes.

With every sip, he thought all his anxiety might spill out of him if he only blinked. He held his eyes closed for a whole minute, breathing deeply as Lestrade talked his ear off about the final aspects of the case. Sherlock really wasn't listening. He missed John's warm breath on his face. He missed the feel of John's hot mouth under his tongue. His heart felt a palpable twang as he thought of John lying injured in a hospital bed. He choked back a worried noise that was pulsing in his throat, and swallowed it down with another full glass of whiskey. He coughed this time, and Lestrade thumped him on the back.

Sherlock was calmed. He sighed, glancing around him in a relaxed state. "Our bartender is sleeping with one of the waitresses," he said with a snort. "He has a girlfriend at home, though. He's also recently suffered an allergy attack."

"Thanks for the useless intel, Sherlock. Eat more. Don't drink so much on an empty stomach."

Sherlock ate. Half the basket of chips had vanished in less than two minutes.

"That woman at the other end of the bar is leaving her husband. Possibly tonight, but it's more likely she'll chicken out and do it next week. She has a serious problem with her friend, who has been texting her repeatedly. I think it's likely that friend is the women her husband has been sleeping with."

"Sherlock-"

"And speaking of cheating, how _is _your wife?"

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "No longer my wife," he said with an air of surprise. "And... well, now, I think that's enough for you, Sherlock."

"Ugh," he said. "Dreadful." Sherlock shot back the last shot of whiskey into his throat, and growled as he slammed the glass onto the bar again. "It's my fault," he sighed. Lestrade looked at him curiously. "My fault John's hurt," he clarified with an uncomfortable glance at his knees. "He puts himself on the front line every day."

"But it's his choice, you know. He put himself on the battlefield when he chose to be your partner, Sherlock. You can't blame yourself."

"I offered him this life. I shouldn't have. I knew he'd accept. He's a soldier, and I knew it was what he wanted. What sort of man does that make me?"

Lestrade gave an awkward shrug. "Does it matter? He's happy with you. And you're happy with him. Don't linger on things you can't change."

"I'm not," Sherlock said quickly. "I'm simply stating fact. It is my fault, and he deserves so much better, and I..." He cleared his throat. "I should tell him." He stood suddenly, and found his legs were wobbly. He steadied himself on Lestrade's shoulder.

"Easy there. I really think you may have had too much."

"No, no," Sherlock said loosely. "No, no, not too much. I'm fine. I'm very, very fine. I have to go, now." He was definitely drunk; it was a rare feeling for him, one he usually avoided, but very much enjoyed. He had only been drunk like this maybe three times in his life, and at this moment, the sensation was delightfully freeing.

Lestrade accompanied him back down the street to St. Bart's. The sun had gone down, and the sidewalk was rather empty. Sherlock's gait was confident but sideways, and Lestrade was laughing at him.

* * *

><p>"John?" Sherlock stumbled into the hospital room, bracing himself on the doorframe to stop the sudden dizziness. "John." The ex-army doctor was still asleep. His gentle face and sandy hair looked soft around the edges. He sighed and licked his lips. "John," he said again, much more quietly.<p>

He glided to his friend's bed, and sat on the mattress at John's side. He reached out, and with a pull of his heart, Sherlock touched John's face. "What have you done to me, John," he breathed. He could smell his own exhale and it reeked of whiskey. He was reminded again of the way John had smelled that night, when he had come into 221b as sloshed as he was and kissed him. Kissing him. Hm. That sounded nice.

Sherlock slumped forward and hovered over John's face so their lips were almost touching. He breathed in John's smell, and enjoyed feeling the soldier's slow breath on his parted lips. "John, I want to kiss you," he told the sleeping figure.

No response.

"John, I'm so glad you're alright," he said. "It's because of me you're here. It's because of me you've had to relive the feeling of a bullet passing through your flesh, and that feels unforgivable to me. I gave you this life, John... and I'm sorry. I need..." He swallowed, and stared unabashedly at the mouth growing fuzzy in his drunken vision. "I need you to be safe." These words came out rather strangled. "I want you to be safe. I... want you."

He kissed him. The world spun. He supposed this was just what happens when a person drinks too much. It was certainly... uncomfortable to say the least. He swooned, enjoying the feel of John's lips, but still restraining himself from pressing further. John was still asleep, after all. "It's all going to be okay, John," he said. "I'll be with you and I'll take care of you when there is nothing better to do, because you're mine, John. You're mine." He was petting that sweet face, feeling the soft cheeks beneath his long fingers and reveling in the texture. "I..."

John's eyelids flickered. "What...?" He mumbled a little incoherently, then opened his eyes. Sherlock gasped. "Sherlock... what're you d-" The pain hit him. He flinched and clutched his arm. "Oh, rats," he said.

Sherlock sat upright again, blinking furiously. "You're awake."

"Oh, good observation, yes," John said in a strained tone. "Jesus... I can't believe I've been shot. Again." A repressed fury was clear in every line of John's face, and Sherlock wanted to lick it all away. He was sad that he couldn't. Then suddenly he was ashamed of himself for being sad about such a thing. Being drunk was strange, Sherlock thought. He felt extremely light-headed. It was no wonder John had been unable to control himself the other night. Sherlock felt barely able to, now. "I... well, I assume they got the guy, did they?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he said with a deep breath.

"Sherlock, you smell..." He took a great whiff. "Sherlock, have you been _drinking_?"

"Have I?" Sherlock smiled. "Yes. Yes I have. A bit. Lestrade said I could use it. Was worried about you, I was. D'you need anything, John? I know you're in pain, can I... can I get you something?"

John laughed a little. His throat was dry, though, and it hurt. "You are drunk."

"Keen," Sherlock sneered. "I am. And I am honest. And I am surprised how real my heart is. And by how much you've infected it. Damn it, John." Sherlock swung one leg over John's body, so he was straddling him.

"Jesus! Sherlock! Not here! This is all going rather fast, and I..."

"John," sighed Sherlock in a low voice. "I know you've been feeling like I don't need you on cases. I know it. I know you want to be with me and I don't make it easy for you. But I'm glad you stay, John. I'm glad you are my friend. I'm grateful for everything you do. I'm grateful for you, for your touch, for your lips, your mouth, your tongue." Blood was rushing to his cock. He leaned forward.

John cringed as Sherlock's weight pressed on him. "Sherlock, I"ve just been shot. Please."

"S-sorry." Sherlock _blushed_.

The smile that graced John's expression was a gentle and forgiving one. "Don't be sorry, Sherlock. This isn't your fault. None of it is. My own drunkenness did get us into this, anyway, and this life... this life with you, Sherlock... is exactly what I want." A flicker of pain crossed his face as he moved his arms to touch Sherlock's thighs which were still wrapped around his waist. "I want you terribly, Sherlock. So, so... terribly."

"Ooh," Sherlock slurred. "So terribly. Please." He could not ignore his nagging erection anymore (and neither could John, as it pressed gorgeously against his belly). Sherlock leaned in again, forgetting to be careful of John's wound, and sloppily crushed his mouth against the injured man's lips. John squealed in pain, but that noise slipped seamlessly into a moan as Sherlock's tongue pushed greedily at the line of his mouth. The kiss deepened. A tug in Sherlocks chest brought out an extraordinary groan that he could not have expected.

John thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, but it had to stop. Between passionate breaths, John croaked weakly: "Sherlock... please... hospital... remember?" He was trying to sound insistent but it was rather difficult when he was so anxious for this closeness with Sherlock, and when Sherlock's tongue was so avidly attempting to devour his mouth. Why couldn't this happen under any _normal_ scenario- not in a hospital room, for one thing? But then, nothing was ever normal when it came to Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock..." he continued breathlessly, hopelessly, "not... here... please... you've got... to stop it... or someone... will walk in."

"Let them see," Sherlock sighed. He felt powerful from having solved the latest case, moved by the unexpected sympathy he'd felt towards the victims, and _overwhelmed_ by the pleasure of this new physical relationship. He wanted to experience it in full. He wanted to absorb John into himself and keep him warm and safe in there.

"Stop!" John suddenly said much more firmly. Sherlock did, looking a little surprised. The detective's eyelids were droopy. "Oh, Sherlock, you'd never be this way if you were sober."

Sherlock blinked slowly, and pulled back. "I..." He shook his head slightly, as though shaking a bug from his hair. "Maybe, but... I..."

John put his hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him back gently. "Sh," he said softly. "It's alright, Sherlock. That's it."

"But I want you," Sherlock moaned, thrusting his hips ever so slightly so that John could feel the length of his erection on his stomach.

"I can't, though," John reminded him. "Wounded in action. Remember?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded solemnly, and dismounted him. He sat at his side again. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry, I just... can't..."

John smiled. "I know, Sherlock. I know what it means to be intoxicated. It can be hard to control yourself. Don't worry about it." He sighed, and touched Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock leaned into the sweet contact, his eyes closed, savoring it. He was swaying slightly from the alcohol's effects. "Lie with me?"

The near-white eyes flew open. His full lips parted a little in surprise, and then he nodded.

John scooted over. Taking care not to nudge John's bandaged shoulder, Sherlock crawled up beside him, his vision turning as he did so. "John. Mm. Spinning."

"Ah, Sherlock," John sighed. "Just sleep. I'll look after you."

Sherlock smiled widely, his expression completely relaxed. "Shouldn't I be saying that? You're hurt. _I _should be looking after _you_."

John stroked Sherlock's face. They were so close to each other on the scratchy hospital pillow that their noses were touching lightly. Their lips were very close. John smiled.

"We can look after _each other_," he whispered.

When the nurse came in to change John Watson's bandages an hour later, a deep blush crept up his neck and face, and he left quickly. The patient and his friend were asleep in each other's arms, and the embarrassed nurse really didn't want to be the one to rouse such a peaceful couple.

* * *

><p><em>Hope you enjoyed, friends! You can expect a bit of smut in the next one.<em>


	6. Easing the Pain

_I'm really not so happy with this chapter, but I'm also too busy to put any more thought into it. Most of it was written while I was in a total rush over the last couple of days, bustling about on field trips and a date and trying to find a place to charge my computer and getting confused by Brooklyn express subways and so on and so forth. Anyway, I hope you're still able to enjoy it, my friends, even if I don't. Much love!_

* * *

><p>Sherlock slept through the hustle and bustle of hospital life around them. When John woke to need his bandages changed, he went about stroking Sherlock's hair absentmindedly with his good arm while the nurse helped him. After he had left, and some time had passed, John could be found smiling serenely as he read his book and enjoyed the detective's body heat at his side. John couldn't help but think that Sherlock looked both adorable and sexy with his rumpled shirt and bed-hair.<p>

When Lestrade came to check on him that morning, John quickly removed his fingers from a tangle in Sherlock's hair (at which the sleeping man wriggled a little). The Inspector chuckled at the sight of the two in bed together. "Y'know, I've never seen him sleep before," he said, "unless you count the time he was unconscious after his overdose." An awkward pause lingered in the air, and they both watched Sherlock with a bit of sadness. "Anyway, maybe I should feed him alcohol more often, the poor bastard."

John sighed, blinking down at the slumbering figure. "I worry about him," John said quietly.

"Don't we all." They were silent for a second, watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall delicately as he breathed. "Anyway," Lestrade piped up again. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, fine, fine," said John dismissively. "Yeah. I imagine I can be going home soon. It really wasn't a bad hit. Certainly not as bad as the first time, anyway. I can handle anything after that."

Lestrade smiled a little sourly. "If you're sure," he said. "I know our friend here was extremely worried about you, even if he might never say it."

John's heart contracted, thinking of all that Sherlock had blurted out to him last night. "I know," he said. "I know, but... really. I am a doctor, after all. I know what I'm talking about."

"Yes, of course." But Lestrade looked unconvinced. "You know Sherlock would kill me if I let you leave here before you were well enough."

"It's not up to you, though," John reminded him.

It was at this precise moment that a nurse entered the room. "Ah!" John exclaimed suddenly in the newcomer's direction. "There! Go on, tell him; tell him I can go home today."

The nurse raised an eyebrow and checked his chart at the end of his bed. "Well, I... I don't really see why not." John grinned. "I see you're a doctor, so I'm sure you understand everything we'll need to give you... and... you'll probably need help with your bandages, of course..." The nurse looked pointedly at Lestrade, who raised his hands to show that he was uninvolved.

"That'll be Sherlock who'll help me," John said, indicating the slumped form at his side. The man was now drooling a little on the pillow. "That is, if he agrees to it, the great lump." With a sigh, John poked him on the shoulder. "Sherlock," he cooed as the nurse left to ascertain the release papers. "Hey, Sherlock, you big oaf, wake up!" Sherlock groaned and swatted John's hand away before curling up closer to his warm torso and remaining perfectly asleep. "Oh, bugger it. Oy! Sherlock!" John slapped him lightly, and at that, Sherlock jerked awake. "There you are, mister. I need you to agree to help me out at home. Changing bandages and such."

The hangover hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks. He was obviously sensitive to the effects of alcohol, he supposed, being one who drank so rarely. John placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder as his head began to throb. He nodded silently, sitting up to bury his face in his hands and hang his head between his knees. John rubbed his back. He knew the light must be bothering his eyes, and he understood completely.

"Thank you. There, there, now," he said, patting him gently. "Think you might be sick?" Sherlock shook his head. "Good," he said, "'cause I'd really like to get out of this place as soon as possible."

Smiling warmly, Lestrade shuffled toward the door. "You'll be alright, Sherlock," he said with a chuckle, and received a most deadly glare in response. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then. Feel better. Both of you. And thanks for your help, Sherlock, as ever." Sherlock pulled an awfully mocking expression as the Inspector swept from the room.

He didn't notice that Lestrade was shaking his head to himself on his way out, or that upon closing the door behind him, he smiled sneakily. He muttered to himself as he left the two men behind him: "Dunno who they think they're fooling."

* * *

><p>A couple of hours later, Sherlock and John found themselves back at 221b. John had taken up refuge on the sofa with his laptop for the rest of the morning, and Sherlock- despite his headache- settled himself at the kitchen table in front of his microscope. They ignored each other for some time (hours?), each too absorbed by his work to notice the other.<p>

John, Sherlock knew, was typing up a case. He could hear the slow and steady clacking of John's unskilled fingers on the keys, and wondered which parts of which case he was documenting now. Was John going to bother with this rather mundane case of the two rapists? He supposed, knowing John to be a man of sentiment, that he would want to record a case which had resulted in his injury because it had a personal value. That was the way John worked. He would relate it to his time in Afghanistan, Sherlock was sure.

He paused over his slide suddenly as an unexpected guilt racked him. He was unhappy to have reopened that old wound of war time. John had seen a lot of bloodshed, and Sherlock knew that although he was now addicted to the adrenaline rush of action, he was still prone to trauma. Sure, he had experimented on John in the past, using him as a guinea pig for drugs and emotional responses to certain stimuli, but guns were different. Guns would always be different to a wounded soldier.

"John," Sherlock called suddenly. The urge to hear his voice had overwhelmed him.

The typing ceased. "What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock just smiled to himself. He didn't really know what to say. Then he cleared his throat, and said, "How are you feeling?"

He could hear John's quiet chuckle. "I'm alright, Sherlock. Thanks for asking." Sherlock's smile widened, and sat back from his microscope. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, missing the warm feeling of having John's small frame at his side the way he had been last night in the hospital bed. Then John spoke again, and his ears perked up. "Can I ask what you're working on or will you tell me to shut up and leave you alone?"

Bored of resisting, Sherlock stood up and marched into the sitting room. John looked up at him, surprised at his sudden appearance. Sherlock did not respond to John's question, but instead sat beside him on the sofa (on his uninjured side, of course), glaring over his shoulder at the screen of his laptop. "You're doing the zookeeper case? Why_ that_ one? What about this recent one?"

John laughed. "I'll do that one next, Sherlock, but we've been so busy lately, I didn't have time to write up the last one." Normally, John would have requested that Sherlock not look over his shoulder like this, or that he stop pressing into his side like that, but... the last few days had changed something between them, and John appreciated the closeness now. He supposed a certain amount of closeness was inevitable once he'd taken Sherlock's cock into his mouth and sucked him to orgasm. John felt a shiver pass to his groin as the memory of that returned to him. He recalled the feeling of Sherlock coming down his throat, and felt suddenly very hot. He shifted a little in his seat, and a twinge went through his arm so he flinched.

"Careful," Sherlock said. "I don't want you to hurt yourself.

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"I'm afraid you'll open your wound," Sherlock said quietly.

John sighed. "I won't."

"Let me check." He snatched the laptop away.

"No! Sherlock, I said I'm fine."

"The doctors told me you might open your stitches. It's easy to do, and it's hard not to move an arm. Let me check."

A little sound of annoyance escaped John's throat. "Please, Sherlock. I'm a doctor. I know what I'm doing. I can take care of myself."

Sherlock was not looking at him. His deft fingers were flying over John's buttons, trying to disrobe him to have a look at the bandages. " John's placed his hands over Sherlock's wrists, trying to tug him away. "Stop it," Sherlock growled. "You're straining your muscles when you shouldn't be. Just let me do this. You _did _ask me to help look after you, didn't you?"

"Yes, but..." John grunted with the pressure on his arm as he tried to push away Sherlock's strong hands. "I meant that I'd need help only when I couldn't do something myself. But... I swear, Sherlock... I don't... need..." But he was losing resolve quickly. The cool air felt nice on his chest as Sherlock undid each button, and the soft fingers touching him were not something easy to refuse.

The detective understood. There was a devious gleam in his eye as he realized what John was thinking. This felt perfectly natural. Surprisingly so. This was _so _natural, Sherlock felt suddenly amazed that he had never tried to undress John before. He flashed back to their encounter of the day before, when John's lips had closed around his cock, and he felt a sudden and intense yearning to give John the same pleasure. He had never taken initiative before, and he was anxious about it now. Nerves struck him, but confidence was the dominant power in him now. Sherlock's desire far outran his fears at the moment. As John's shirt fell open, Sherlock slithered his spindly fingers over John's stomach to tease the line of hair which showed the trail to his loins. John's breathing hitched. Sherlock enjoyed the motion of his chest as he panted. He smiled. "Sh," he cooed softly, sliding the shirt over his arms so that the bandages were exposed to him. He stood up and moved to the other side of the sofa so he was closer to the wound. He breathed John's name, and leaved in close. He kissed the skin around the white gauze. John's scent overwhelmed his senses. He sighed. "I love the way you smell."

John leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "Sherlock." His voice cracked a little. The touch was electric, and was sending large shocks to his belly which tingled and swiveled their way down to his cock. "Oh dear."

"Hm?" Sherlock rumbled, peeling back the bandage to check on the stitches beneath. "What's the matter, John?"

"N- Nothing," John sighed. "I just... oh god, Sherlock. When you touch me, it just... Well, if anything was going to make you afraid I'd open my stitches... the way you touch me... heck, I'd be worried."

Sherlock grinned.

"God, this is strange, isn't it?" John was shaking his head contemplatively. "So much between us has changed so quickly, hasn't it? What happened to us?"

"Whiskey happened," Sherlock reminded him. "You would have kept it all to yourself if you hadn't drunk too much that night."

John raised his eyebrows and cocked his head agreeably. "True," he said. "I probably would have never..." Sherlock's lips hovered over the sewn up wound so his breath soothed the gash. "...Would have never... come clean."

The graze on John's arm was already healing well, and hadn't bled much since they left the hospital. He placed the bandage down again, smoothing the tape back onto John's skin. Sherlock smiled, and looked up at him. He put a delicate hand under John's chin and tilted his head towards him. John's eyes fluttered open, and the look in them was one of surprise and excitement. "I'm glad you did," Sherlock said without thinking. "I never would have thought I'd be glad about this, but your affection has broke my assumption that I am heartless and machine-like," he said in a low growl, glancing away from John as he contemplated the thought. "How strange this all is. How new."

"Very new," John said. "And very nice."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, leaning dangerously close to John's face. "_Very_ nice."

John's eyes flickered to Sherlock's amazing lips. Their breath mingled. They were inhaling each other. Then, Sherlock closed the space. Once again, the world became nothing. There was nothing more important than the contact between the two mouths. Feeling breathless, John inhaled deeply through his nose. The passion intensified. Sherlock's tongue commanded John to his will, to the point where he was quickly becoming a puddle of his former self. When he moaned eagerly, Sherlock withdrew- but only to move his lips down to John's jaw. He placed light kisses there before moving to John's neck, where he licked and sucked and nibbled until a deep bruise formed from his domineering mouth. John's moans grew louder under this pressure. His cock was aching. He let out a serious whine of pleasure as Sherlock pulled away from the spot on his neck with a smack of his lips. "Ugh... Sherlock..." he sighed. Sherlock's lust was raging at the sound of his name in that desperate tone.

"Sh," he said. "Let me take care of you." He brushed fingers over John's lips. "Let me make you feel better." He traveled downward, nuzzling the side of his face on John's chest. "God, you feel good," he said. "You are everything my body needs."

John's fingers twisted into Sherlock's hair, and his other hand gripped the edge of the sofa as frustration mounted. Those words. Oh god, those words.

Sherlock slipped onto his knees on the floor, positioning himself between John's legs. He placed a deep kiss on the surface of Johns torso between each word he spoke. "You... John... are _everything_... my body... needs. You make... my transport... feel... worth... taking care of." When he finished this, his lips had reached John's waistline. Sherlock's warm breath tickled the hairs which disappeared below John's jeans. He smiled as he teased open the button and pulled the zipper down.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," John moaned, thrusting forward a little in anticipation. But Sherlock held his hips down.

"John," Sherlock growled as he clutched John's bulge through the denim. "I wish to make you feel good. I wish to give you all the pleasure in the world." Down came the jeans. "To make your writhe and tremble and _shout _for me." John's cock was free, and _oh_, Sherlock thought it looked perfectly suited for his mouth. "To instigate my name from your lips in an ecstatic chant to the heavens until you cannot _breathe_, until you feel you'll _drown_ from the pleasure of it." He brushed his lips along the length of John's cock, allowing his hot exhales to tease his skin. "And to make you feel as though you'll never be whole again without my touch, without feeling the heat of me on you. John. I want to give to you... the feelings you gave to _me_."

The army doctor moaned before Sherlock even touched him. "Please," John groaned in a high-pitches voice. "Please, Sherlock, please, oh god, please..."

"Begging already?" He chuckled. "Glad I have such power." At that, Sherlock wrapped his perfect lips around John in one swift movement, and the wounded man's deep appreciative moan was unbelievable. It was a chilling sound that made Sherlock's groin pulse with need. His desire for John was flaring, and he could not hold back. He sucked John into him deeply, until the head of John's cock pushed at the back of his throat. He was full of him, and it felt beautiful. It felt _perfect_. He never could have imagined anything like this would ever feel so good, but now he could not deny that it did.

John's hand was in his hair, and his guttural moans were something Sherlock would never forget. He moved his mouth up and down John's cock, greedily gulping him down into his throat until he could absorb him no further. He hands were braced on John's thighs, and his grip was tightening with the desire to take John deeper. He groaned around Sherlock, and the rumble shot through John like an electric pulse. He shuddered at the sensation, and the tension in his muscles was bothering his injured arm.

Sherlock's tongue was hard at work around the base of his friend's cock. John's delicious noises were only getting louder. Occasionally his incoherent babbling became actual words. "Oh," he said. "Oh, Sherlock. Oh god, Sherlock, yes, yes, yes, please, Sherlock, more, oh god, Sherlock don't stop, don't ever stop." But Sherlock had no mind to stop now. He meant to pleasure John until he begged at the top of his lungs, until he shouted Sherlock's name over and over again, singing the word his entire journey into orgasm. That was what he wanted; to feel John come in hot splashes of ecstasy over his tongue and down his throat; to feel John's pleasure intimately; to give his friend what John had given him, the undefinable bliss of being devoured in this way. "Sherlock, fuck, oh fuck, fuck, fuck, yes," said John in a strangled cry.

The detective slid his lips back until just the head of John's cock was still pressed against his tongue, then he held himself there. He had John pinned with his hands, so he could not thrust into Sherlock's mouth. "Oh god, Sherlock," he moaned. "Please, please, please,"

Sherlock withdrew, but lingered his mouth at the very tip of John. "Please what, John? Beg me for it, John. Beg for release. But do be careful of your shoulder, won't you?"

Even through his pleasure, John managed a shrill laugh. When Sherlock's tongue descended upon him again (licking the length of his cock in its entirety), he did as he was told. "Oh, please, Sherlock, please, please, please. I beg you. I am begging you, please, let me come. Please let me come inside you. Please, please, please, oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sher-" The high-pitched cry that interrupted John's reverent begging reverberated throughout the sitting room. Sherlock had wrapped his mouth around John again, completely engulfing him in warm, wet delight. The orgasm tore through him. Sherlock could feel it coming, could feel the warning tingle in the shaft of John's cock. When the hot stream jetted into him, Sherlock actually _moaned_ for it. The gasps and groans John made had Sherlock completely enraptured. Sherlock's own cock was straining painfully. Time seemed to linger in the long seconds of orgasm.

Every tension that had been in John's body suddenly eased. The storm had clearly passed.

He sucked John completely dry before pulling away. He gave him one long lick up the shaft before finally letting go. The army doctor slumped. Relaxation seemed to hit him like a brick. "Christ," he breathed between heavy pants. "Fuck, Sherlock. That...was... bloody fantastic."

Sherlock smirked, and pushed himself up onto the sofa beside his friend. John looked at him with a goofy grin plastered on his face. "I was rather good, wasn't I?" Sherlock said proudly.

"No need to be modest," John mocked, a deep flush blooming over his soft cheeks.

"Modesty is a useless quality and a waste of time. I could never understand why people treasure it as a virtue."

John closed his eyes. "I know, I know." He leaned his head back. "Y'know, Sherlock," he sighed, "I feel really good about everything. For a minute there I almost forgot about the pain."

Sherlock licked his lips, reliving what he had just done for John. "I'm glad. I only wished to make you feel better. To take care of you when you're hurting."

"And what about when I'm not hurting?"

Sherlock said nothing. He watched John closely. He looked so peaceful and lovely for someone who'd been shot the day previous. He thought John looked positively angelic in this sedated state of bliss. Sherlock's mind was as active as ever, yet he found himself hardly bored as he gazed at the resting man. He wanted John to be this comfortable every second of his life. He wanted John never to hurt again. Almost instinctually, Sherlock reached out and interlaced his fingers with John's. The doctor's eyes snapped open, and his lips parted delicately. He looked surprised. "What...?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock spat irritably (though the serene smile on his face gave him away). "Don't speak of it." Sherlock sat back comfortably. "How is the pain, now?"

"Bearable."

"Shall I get you your pills?"

John's fingers twitched against his, and he blushed. "I'd rather you didn't move for now."

Sherlock felt touched by this. As John continued to catch his breath, Sherlock just sat there, allowing his hand linger snugly in John's warm palm. It was minutes before John finally drudged his computer back onto his lap. Still, even then as he typed away with one hand, John would not let Sherlock unlace their fingers.

With a sigh and a sudden intense desire for nicotine, Sherlock sunk back into his vast mind to muse over all he knew (or used to know) about his heart.

* * *

><p><em>Pretty sure I'm only going to include one more chapter. <em>

_I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think._


	7. Whiskey

_Wrote this last chapter late last night in a fit of exhaustion. I edited it somewhat, but not much. I'm not too proud of this story, what can I say. But I did what I could. There's sex in this one, guys, and a WHOLE lotta fluff. I tried to write the sex the way I thought Sherlock would see it- I figure he'd be overwhelmed by the sensations, y'know, with his overactive mind, so that's what I tried to convey. I hope it worked, and doesn't JUST sound overdramatic._

_Also, I am too lazy to research how long it takes for a bullet graze to heal, so I made some shit up. Ignore my incorrectness, 'kay?_

_Anyway... enjoy!_

* * *

><p>They sat that way for a long time (an hour, maybe?), until Sherlock's jittery fingers laced with John's were simply too annoyingly fidgety for John to stand anymore. He shook him off with an awkward laugh. "Go back to your little... experiment, whatever it is, Sherlock," he said dismissively. There was still a slight rouge to his cheeks from the lingering afterglow of the pleasure Sherlock had granted him. Sherlock couldn't help smirk at the sight of his as he stood.<p>

Ah, stretching his legs felt nice, but his side felt cold. He had gotten used to the warmth of John beside him. It was weird. He brushed off the feeling as quickly as possible, and returned to the slide under the lens he'd left unattended. But oh, what a pleasant reason to abandon the work. Pleasing John was as satisfying as the work was. It was another mode of science, one as fascinating and full of possibilities as chemistry. Sherlock was enthralled by it. His desire to hold John's hand, however, was a different reaction altogether. He had not expected that from himself. He could not take it back now, though. What's done was done.

The rest of that day passed a little uncomfortably. Sherlock was feeling uneasy in his own skin, for his body was betraying everything he thought he'd ever been sure of. Was this what it felt like to go unsatisfied? Was this his heart wanting to please John further? He couldn't tell. He had never been so confused.

There was one thing he could be sure of: love and sentiment were chemical defects found only in the losing side, and that could not be what this was. This was only a physical need, not an emotional one. It had to be.

He shifted constantly while he sat in front of his microscope, as though there was a furious itch someplace he could not reach. It was an itch that seemed to reside deep in his marrow: unreachable and unnamable. He hated not understanding himself; he hated not understanding things in general. It was a useless distraction, one that was causing discomfort and frustration and was just an all-around waste of time. Damn John.

At this rate, John was sure to notice him squirming. He kept crossing and uncrossing his legs, and occasionally clearing his throat. But John made no indication of noticing him, and for that, Sherlock was grateful. They kept to themselves, and the day was uneventful.

In fact, the entire week following was painfully uneventful.

John was healing. He didn't do much. He took time off from surgery, and they got no new cases that required leaving the flat.

Sherlock got a few phone-ins, but they were dull. _Dull, all so dull; why do people always bring me such simple problems? Why are people so boring? So stupid? _

Just once, Lestrade showed up at their door. After explaining the recent case, Sherlock sighed dramatically. He stood, and started to pace. "Once again, Lestrade, you are simply failing to see what is obvious." The facts he had been given already spelled out for him (somehow, in that impossibly genius mind of his) exactly the answers the Inspector was looking for. He went on to detail exactly how the murder was committed and who they were probably looking for. Lestrade sat there open-mouthed, and John could be seen in the corner grinning to himself, despite not looking up from his computer screen.

Another excruciatingly quiet day went by, and there were still no interesting cases to speak of. Sherlock was actually dressed, however (this was rare when there were no cases to be solved). John took it as a sign that Sherlock was desperate for action.

Desperate, indeed. Sherlock had just thrown his mobile across the sitting room. "Idiots!" he shouted, wringing his hands. "This... is... _ridiculous_!" The sound of Sherlock's mobile slamming into the floor and breaking into its separate parts caused John to look up.

John's arm was mostly healed, now. Despite how much blood he'd lost and how much worry Sherlock had exerted over it, he was really fine. His movement was still a little stiff, and his arm still throbbed when he moved his arm too much, but that was all normal, and it was nothing compared to what he'd experienced in Afghanistan.

"Sherlock?" John didn't need to say more than that. He could tell Sherlock was looking for any invitation to speak more.

"Oh, it's ridiculous," Sherlock went on, starting to vent. "How are people so stupid? Why is there nothing interesting going on in _all _of London?"

"It's alright, Sherlock," John said calmly. "I'm sure a nice murder will come along soon enough."

"Yes, and what about _now_? What am I to do _now_?" He looked wild. Mad. His hands were in his hair. "_A week_, John! A _whole week!_ I need... I need..." He stopped pacing. He stared at John with wide eyes.

John understood, and he shook his head quickly. "No," he said. "I'm not getting you any. Drugs aren't going to help you, Sherlock, and I'm not going to help you get any, so don't even try."

Sherlock looked intensely frustrated at this, and threw himself onto the sofa. He groaned as though being tortured. "John!" he grumbled melodramatically. "The world is vapid. How anyone survives the mundane existence of an ordinary life, I cannot understand."

John simply shrugged. "We manage," he said. As Sherlock rolled over, looking dreadfully irritated, John had a sudden thought. He could not help Sherlock with getting a case, and would never submit to Sherlock's desire for cocaine or cigarettes, but he _could _give him _something_- at least some short term distraction. Sherlock rolled over again, so he was face down on the sofa, breathing awkwardly against the cushions. He looked as though he was trying to suffocate himself. "Alright," John said, putting aside his laptop and getting to his feet. "That's it. I'm going out."

"Why?" Sherlock said. His voice was muffled. "What for?"

"You'll see," he said.

"Fine, go, You're lucky to be the idiot you are and still take pleasure in going out for useless things. I envy you."

John rolled his eyes, and left.

By the time John returned, twenty minutes later, the consulting detective had overturned the sofa. "Sherlock!" John placed his shopping on the floor by the doorframe, and approached the wreckage, not really sure what to do. "Sherlock... what...?"

Sherlock grunted. He was seated in his armchair, hugging his knees close, rocking back and forth. "Bored," was all he said, in a voice low and packed full of anxiety.

"Oh, Sherlock." John may have once pitied the man, but he was all too used to these tantrums by now to pity him any more.

"What did you get while you were out?" Sherlock eyed the plastic bag by the door. John went back over to it, and lifted it. "Ah," Sherlock said. "You got alcohol. Obviously."

"How-"

"The sound the glass made when lifted from the ground, and the specific audible sound of the swirling liquid."

John smiled. "Obviously."

Sherlock pulled a mocking face. "Yes. Obviously." He then glared at the bag John placed on the coffee table between their chairs. John sat, as well, and the thing sat between them like a challenge. "What is this for, John? Is this you having a laugh at my behavior the last time I consumed alcohol?"

"It was whiskey, wasn't it?" John asked, removing the amber bottle from its bag and placing it with a dull clunk on the wood surface. Sherlock nodded. "Right. No, Sherlock I'm not just having a laugh at you. I'm trying to give you something to do."

"But you know I don't like alcohol, John. My brain does not need dulling. It needs stimulation."

"I know that, Sherlock. But I..." John shifted. Sherlock watched him. The detective's mind was going into overdrive. He was glad for something to concentrate on, something to analyze. John was certainly interesting at the moment. His body language told him everything. It told him that John _wanted_ Sherlock, that he was currently thinking about their two brief sexual encounters. In the last week, since Sherlock had pleasured John, Sherlock had avoided physical contact with John as much as possible. Sometimes, though, he had grabbed John's hand instinctively when passing him in the kitchen, or when leaning down to talk to him while he was on his computer. Those momentary indiscretions ended quickly, though, and they always left them both blushing. Sherlock tended to feel pleased with himself that he could make John blush like this, but that never lasted long. He got too quickly distracted by the sucking void in his mind or a useless phone call for a case that never led anywhere. Now, the tension that had been building in John over this time period was bubbled to his surface, ready to overflow. "Sherlock, I'd like to not ignore what happened between us last week. I know you need stimulation for your mind, Sherlock, but there are ways to distract yourself from that." A long pause. Sherlock squinted. "Physical... ways."

Sherlock sat back, and lowered his legs so his feet touched the floor again. He placed his fingertips together and gazed at John thoughtfully. "Oh," he said.

"Now I know that you don't like your mind dulled, but I'm a bit nervous about discussing this sort of thing with you, so I'm getting a couple of glasses, and if you want to join me in a drink, you're welcome to."

John retrieved two glasses from the kitchen, and returned to his armchair with a sigh. There was a steady blush creeping up his neck that Sherlock couldn't help but notice with relish. Sherlock's slow grin could not be contained. The front of his trousers was becoming uncomfortably tight, for he understood what John wanted, and to be honest, it didn't sound like a bad idea. He thought back to their first encounter- the way John's lips had wrapped around him and how he'd swooned at the sensation of it. Oh, how his heart had swelled, and his brain function seemed to cease at last. His mouth now watered for that feeling again. He licked his lips as he watched John unscrew the bottle and let the whiskey tinker out into the glass set before him. John then gave him a delightfully questioning look as he paused over the second glass. Sherlock thought for a second, then nodded.

Sherlock leaned forward as his companion slid the glass towards him. "Tell me, John," he said, and the army doctor looked up. "How long have you had these feelings for me?"

John's blush lost all subtlety. He was beet red. "Er..." Sherlock's eyes twinkled at the discomfort John held. He loved it. He wanted John to be as uncomfortable as he had been feeling all week. He wanted them to be on the same level of awkwardness. "I, er... well... a long time, I suppose."

"And you kept it hidden."

"Yes." John cleared his throat, sat back, and swallowed a large swig of the whiskey. "Until... well, until..."

"Until last week."

"Yes."

A moment of silence fell between them, Sherlock staring intently and John desperately avoiding Sherlock's eyes as he drank deeply to soothe his nerves. This was certainly an entertaining way to fill up Sherlock's boredom. Thank goodness for John. He imagined exploring that body would be immense fun, and at that thought he felt an uncontrollable stirring in his groin. He licked his lips again. "I am _so_ glad you came clean," Sherlock said. "This could have so many benefits."

John shrugged. "I never would have. Thank the whiskey." He held up his glass.

"Yes." Sherlock lifted his own glass from the table between them and looked at it curiously. "Whiskey." He raised it to John with a nod of his head, and took a sip. The burn down his throat was not all that unpleasant, and a sweet warmth spread instantly from his mouth into his limbs. He smiled. "I am so glad," he said again. "It is... such a relief, and such an amazing discovery for myself. I have never..." He took another sip. "I have never felt physically needy towards anyone before. Anyone. I always assumed I couldn't..."

"Good to be proved wrong now and again, hm?"

Sherlock glared. "I wasn't _wrong_, I..."

"No, no, you thought you were asexual! You really thought!"

"Sexuality is fluid." Sherlock snapped irritably. "People make new discoveries about their needs and desires late in life all the time."

John raised his eyebrows. "Been reading up?"

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock downed the rest of his glass, and John chuckled quietly. When Sherlock placed his glass delicately on the table again, John refilled its contents for him. Sherlock sighed, glaring at his friend. "This is very weird for me," he said."

"I understand, Sherlock. You've said that before."

"I very much liked pleasing you when you were injured, however." Sherlock smirked at the reaction this caused in John. He was shifting awkwardly, and his face was twisted in embarrassment. Sherlock loved it. _Yes, squirm_, he thought. _God, I'd love to see you squirm like that beneath me_.

John cleared his throat. "You, er..." He took a deep swig. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. You're very, er..."

Sherlock laughed. "Look at you. So uncomfortable. I'm the inexperienced one here. Shouldn't you be more confident than I?"

Scratching a spot behind his ear, John smiled sweetly. "Ah, but I've never felt for a man, before, y'know. It's only ever been women for me."

"It's new for both of us, then. A world of firsts." Sherlock's pleased smile was growing.

"I suppose so." Silence fell again, and they both drank heartily. "God, Sherlock," John sighed. "You're really..."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, observing every tiny movement of John's face. "What?"

"You're really gorgeous."

_You are sexy when you order me around like that_. The words from that first night crept up Sherlock's spine and settled in the front of his mind. The desire to test John's comfort levels was enflamed. Sherlock was excited, and grinning fiercely. "Would you like to know what you told me that first evening when you came home wasted out of your mind and admitted your feelings to me?"

John cleared his throat. "Er... alright. Go on, then. How did I embarrass myself?"

"You told me that you find me sexy when I order you around."

The look on John's face was priceless. Not only did his blush grow deeper, but his jaw dropped and his pupils dilated impressively. Ah, Sherlock loved it. He wanted to push John further. This was too much fun, and his own desire for his friend was raging. His cock was pulsing. His stomach was fluttering. He had never felt such a strong physical pull for anything in his life. Was this the effect of the whiskey? He remembered how much he'd wanted John in the hospital. It wasn't _all_ the whiskey, he knew. He knew alcohol lowered inhibitions, and he supposed it was merely breaking down a wall which protected him from the urges that he was so good at suppressing. Ah, he didn't mind, though. He downed the rest of the glass in his hand, and set it down again.

John followed suit, looking mortified. "Oh dear," he mumbled as he pulled the glass from his lips. His lips were wet with whiskey. A droplet lingered on his top lip. He didn't seem to notice. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to lick it off, and oh, at this point, what did it matter if he did? He wanted it, and what a waste of time and effort it would be to hold back anymore. He stood, and made his way to stand right over John.

They were in the same position they had been when John had grabbed him that first night to kiss him. This time, however, Sherlock took control. John's expression was wary and nervous. Sherlock took John's glass from the trembling tan fingers and placed it on the table behind him, never once taking his eyes off John's. Their gazes were locked. Sherlock was close to John's mouth. Too close. _Oh_, the space between them vibrated tangibly. _Yes, yes yes yes_, Sherlock's mind screamed of the closeness.

He could feel no breath coming from John's open mouth as he sat frozen. Sherlock grinned. He flicked his tongue out to taste the whiskey from John's lips, and that did it.

John exhaled dramatically, and closed the space between them. Sherlock's head spun. This was beautiful. This was perfect. This was better than any food or any drug, and was the greatest stimulant to his needy mind that he could ever imagine. This was what he needed. This was_ all _he needed. Why had he bothered to wait so long to do this again? How stupid of him. "John," he groaned against the man's thin lips. "John... you're perfect." John pulled back for a second, his eyes rather wet. "Don't look like that. You are a perfect idiot and you are perfect for my body's needs." John snorted, but Sherlock quieted him with a quick lunge of his mouth. He pushed him back into the chair so John felt he was sinking into the cushions, being totally consumed by Sherlock's eager mouth. It was pure bliss. It was everything they needed, everything they'd been holding back all week now being poured into this interaction. John's lips were hot and delicious and wanting, and Sherlock was light-headed with the passion of it.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," John groaned into Sherlock's lips. Sherlock enjoyed the sound rumbling through him, and in response he delved his tongue deeply into the warm cavern of John's mouth. The army doctor moaned and _melted_ under him. Sherlock wanted to claim him completely; to devour him; to own his body; to absorb John into him and keep him in there, warm and safe. The need was intense. Overwhelming.

Sherlock broke away as his desire reached it boiling point. "Stand," he demanded. His lips were swollen and wet, and he was breathing heavily, but he looked perfectly serious. When John did not obey, but simply sat there looking drunk and bewildered, Sherlock lowered his voice. "Do as I say, John." He sounded positively dangerous.

A shudder passed through John, and he stood quickly. His eyelids were heavy with lust. Sherlock loved seeing John like this. He wished he could have him this way, at his disposal, _always_.

"Go to your bedroom." At that, John's breath hitched. He looked weak. Sherlock lightly placed his fingers under John's chin, tilting his head up so his lovely roughed-up lips were more accessible to him. He allowed John the most delicate of kisses, and purred sensually into his mouth. "Go," he said. "Take off your clothes. Be prepared for me to explore you."

John's shiver made Sherlock's cock twitch. "Am I to be your distraction, Sherlock? Is that what I'll become to you if we let this happen?"

Sherlock grinned. "You will be mine to play with at my boredom. Yes."

"And what... what if _I _bore you, eventually?"

Sherlock was taken aback. "Impossible, John." He stroked the army doctor's cheeks. "I _never _feel this kind of desire, John. You must understand that. I do not feel it for anyone, and never could... except for you. Since last week... I feel it all the time. And I would appreciate it if... after tonight... you stop that incessant dating you seem so attached to."

The expression that played on John's face was a gentle one. He was clearly working something out. It seemed that he was recognizing this was as close as Sherlock could get to saying that they were 'together' now. After a moment of this contemplation, John's expression turned into one warmed by flattery. "Deal." John then leaned up for a kiss. But Sherlock denied him.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said, putting a finger to John's lips. "What did I say?"

John cleared his throat and looked a little bewildered. "Er... you said... to... go to my bedroom."

"That's right. And?"

"Take off my clothes." His voice cracked. Sherlock smirked,

"Excellent. Now go. I'll follow in a minute."

He went, on shaking legs, leaving Sherlock behind him looking pleased. The genius's arms were crossed. His expression was one of excited anticipation and firm authority. He could barely believe his fortune at having John in his life; John, who obeyed him completely and was willing to strip for him and become _his_. Sherlock's groin was throbbing uncontrollably, aching to touch John's nakedness.

In John's absence, Sherlock took a few long, slow breaths. He imagined John removing each article of clothing and thought to himself how lovely it would be, _next time_, to disrobe John himself. He closed his eyes, feeling bizarrely aware of his body.

A minute passed, then he made his way up the steps to John's bedroom with a bounce in his step that was so out of character that he was almost ashamed of himself.

"Ah." John looked positively stunning. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his naked form inviting to Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock wanted to lick every part of him. His body was well shaped. He looked delicious. Sherlock made a sound at the back of his throat that was practically obscene. He could not help himself. He lunged, crossing the room in three strides with his long legs, and not wasting any time. He took his doctor into his arms, loving the feel of his bare flesh in his grasp. John's body was warm, _so warm_. He wanted to taste that warmth; to devour it. He pressed his mouth to John's neck and suctioned deeply as though he could really inhale the man and feel him in his lungs.

John's moan sent a tremor of intense desire through Sherlock's body. It was causing him to ache painfully. The two men moaned together, incessantly, greedily. John's fingers clawed at Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's teeth imprinted into the flesh at the nape of John's neck. It was a total frenzy. "Uhn... Sherlock..." John moaned.

"Hmm?" It was hard to listen well when he was so intent on dizzying his naked friend into submission.

"Get... out... of those clothes..."

Sherlock laughed lowly, and pulled his mouth away. "No," he said. "I rather like it this way." John trembled. "You, bare and vulnerable to me? A perfect specimen for my curiosities? Glorious."

But John's hands were working hard. They slipped beneath Sherlock's blazer, trying hard to push it off of him. Sherlock chuckled, and pushed them away. He grasped John'x wrists in his strong hands, and John moaned again at this. His mouth was lolling open. His pupils were dominating his light irises. He looked completely enraptured. Completely submissive. Completely gorgeous.

Sherlock tightened this grip, and pushed John all the way onto his back on the bed, pressing John's arms over his head into the pillow. Both men were smiling deviously. "Oh, John," he sighed. "Do be patient." Sherlock transfered both of John's wrists into the grip of one hand while the other trailed down John's side. The naked doctor's back arched under Sherlock's overpowering figure so that his cock pressed angrily into Sherlock's inner thigh. The pressure made Sherlock's own loins enflame with need. _Yes_, thought Sherlock. He slid his free hand down John's torso and lingered on his hips for a second before pressing between them, and allowing for that first touch.

Both men swooned, heads thrown back and mouths agape in a lustful gasp. "Yes, John, yes," Sherlock breathed through his teeth.

"Sherl- Oh... god..." Sherlock's smirk was a dirty one. The pleading he could incite from John was interesting. Magnificent. _Beautiful_. His hand moved unskillfully across John's cock, figuring him out. Learning. And oh, how quickly he was able to learn. He knew a little already, from when he'd enjoyed John in his mouth, and now he was figuring out all John's pressure points- the spots he liked, the spots that made him lurch with pleasure. Before long, he had John in a violent sweat, panting like mad and reduced to a babbling mess beneath him. Sherlock _loved it_.

When it looked like John would not be able to stand it any more- when he was struggling wildly against Sherlock's tight grip on his wrists and he was red in the face- Sherlock let go of his cock. John cried out. "No!" he said. "No, please, Sherlock. Please."

"Mm," Sherlock said, nuzzling the purple mark he'd left on John's neck. "I like _that._ Say it again."

"Please? Please. Please. _Please_." John's begging was not only the product of Sherlock's command. It was one of the most genuine things Sherlock could ever remember hearing on another man's lips. And Sherlock found suddenly that he wanted to oblige those pleas more than anything else. He scooted backward a little, leaving John's body to the air, and John (to Sherlock's _great _pleasure), left his hands above his head where Sherlock had pinned them. The sight of John being this deeply under his control had Sherlock's cock hard and aching.

"Oh, John, yes." Sherlock began to work his tongue down John's stomach, trailing to the apex of his thighs where that delicious cock was straining towards his face. He avoided it deliberately, however. He allowed wet kisses around the base, but never touched it. He made his way around the tops of John's thighs until the army doctor was writhing and pleading further. His begging had become near-crying, and his cries all seemed to be wrapped around Sherlock's name in an insuppressible strangled tone. John clearly enjoyed the teasing. That was good. Sherlock catalogued this information into a quickly growing file in his organized mind.

Sherlock placed his lips lightly against John's balls. "Mm," he said, making sure the vibration shocked through his naked friend. "John." John moaned.

"Please," he choked. "Please, Sherlock, please."

He could barely help himself a moment longer. Sherlock delved his fingers into his own mouth for moisture, spit a little onto them, and with his wet middle finger, teased John's opening. "Again," he demanded.

"Please."

That was enough. Sherlock's senses were in overdrive from this new experience, observing every tiny flinch and twitch of John's body and expression, deducing what motions were causing which reactions. Oh, this was _fascinating!_ Truly! This was enough to keep him occupied _forever_. He curled his fingers deep inside John's body, pressing a swollen spot near the front which sent John spiraling. His pleading became incoherent.

"Use your words, John," Sherlock said. He, himself, was so breathless, it was amazing he managed to sound so cool-headed. "Go on, John. What do you want?"

John was biting his lip, his eyes shut tight. He seemed to be holding his breath.

"Come on, John. Come on. I know you want something. Tell me what it is. You said you'd lead me. Help me."

"Uhhn... Sherlock... I... hn... please..."

"Please what, John?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please _what_, John?"

"Please, please, I need to have you inside me, Sherlock, I need it, I need it, please, please fuck me Sherlock, please...there's... lubricant in the... side table..."

Sherlock really didn't need a second telling. His trousers were undone quickly, and as they bunched around his knees, his long cock sprung free. He barely remembered gaining the self-control to retrieve the lube from the drawer to his right. The liquid was cold on his cock, but he ignored it. It was easy to ignore, of course. He was skilled at that.

The desperation in him was uncomfortable as hell, but it also felt incredible. The pleasure of need, however, was no where near as delightful as that which racked him as he pressed the head of his cock against John. He was teasing him into total submission, and that was beautiful. John's expression was the most incredible thing he'd ever seen. He took a mental snapshot.

"Sherlock," John cried. "Please, Sherlock, yes, yes, please. Oh, please. I can't. Please. Please fuck me, you bastard. I'm yours." John was bucking into him, trying to force Sherlock inside. But Sherlock would not have it. He wanted this on his own terms. Sherlock held him down at the hips, forcing him still for a moment, before he thrust all the way in.

The shouts and cries which burst from them both were louder than expected. Neither had half a mind to remember that Mrs. Hudson was probably hearing them, for each was too caught up in their own pleasure that it barely mattered. Nothing mattered anymore, not when Sherlock had himself sheathed in his friend and was holding him down like his life depended on it. His hand had found John's wrists again. He pinned them there (not that he needed to, for John kept his arms properly still). John was moaning at Sherlock's additional exertion of power. He lifted his hips, greedily forcing Sherlock deeper.

Sherlock moaned, buried inside of John, whose legs he had thrown over his shoulders as he fucked him. The bliss rolled over both of them in delicious waves. This was heavenly. This was better than either of them expected. So_ this_- this intense shower of ecstasy, _this_, Sherlock acknowledged... _this was sex_. How could he have _ever _considered himself asexual? But then, he really was only sexual for this _one person_, and never for anyone else. There was only ever John. And _oh_, how his body reacted to John. _John John John John John_. His brain seemed stuck on a loop. A pleasurably thoughtless loop. Oh, _this_... _this_, was glorious. This was _sex._ They should do this _always,_ Sherlock considered as he moaned heartily into John's mouth.

The fire with which Sherlock fucked him only intensified as the minutes passed. On and on they went. John came first. He soiled his own stomach, and barely missed the front of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock wanted desperately to release, but he held off. He continued his relentless pounding for what felt like forever. He was reveling in the pleasure, allowing himself to be completely absorbed by it.

It wasn't long before John was fucked through another orgasm, and it was this second round of violent clenching around his cock that sent Sherlock over the edge as well.

_Ah_, the sensation of orgasm through intercourse. He could never explain such a phenomenon. Never. It was something beyond his cognitive processes. He would very much like to never experience a feeling like this again unless it was against John's naked body, for it was _John (oh, John, yes, fuck, more, John, John John, oh god, John)_ who did this to him. _John_ who sent him writhing and grunting like a feral animal in heat. He was all teeth and claws- biting, scratching, sucking, and licking every part of John he could reach. He was on a plane of his mind he'd never reached before- a high that not even the cocaine had ever brought him to. He wanted to live up here in this headspace forever.

Then, almost as suddenly as such ecstasy hit him, he was coming down. The high, so similar to his old cocaine highs, ended too fast. As he collapsed beside his friend, Sherlock actually whined. "No," he said. "More."

John let out a breathless deep giggle, and stroked Sherlock's hair. "Can't have more immediately, Sherlock," he said quietly.

Sherlock let out a groan. "But it's over. It shouldn't ever be over." He thought of the last case they worked on. The idea that anyone would force this... that anyone would destroy something so wonderful in someone's life... that sickened him. He shook the thought from his mind. "It's too amazing for people to take advantage of. Too amazing to end."

John stared at him. Sherlock stared back. Both of them were panting and deeply flushed from orgasm and the lingering effects of the whiskey. "Sherlock, this is the way it is. It's brilliant for a short while, but then there's this part." John took Sherlock into his arms and held him close to his chest. "It sucks that it's over, but this part's not so bad, either." Sherlock's heart experienced an unusual palpation, and he jumped a little at this feeling.

"What..."

"Cuddling, Sherlock," John said. "You liked it in the hospital. Of course, you were a lot drunker in the hospital..."

"No, no," Sherlock said quickly, realizing that John thought he was unhappy with the state of things. Clumsily but confidently, Sherlock took John's arm and pulled it tighter around his shoulders. "This is good. I'm just... sad it's over. I want that high to come back."

John laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. I know that feeling. Once you start, you never want to stop. Damn, maybe it was a bad idea to get you started on sex, knowing how obsessive you can get with your damned addictive personality."

"No, but this is brilliant, John!" Sherlock exclaimed. His whole body was buzzing with excitement. "Don't you see? Now..." He actually_ laughed_. "From now on, our sofa will never be upturned again! Our wall will not become victim, either! Now, when there are no cases or experiments to be heard of... I will have your body to play with!"

John shuddered. Sherlock could feel it through his cheek which he had pressed to John's sticky chest. "Oh, Sherlock, when you put it that way..."

"What way?"

"'Have my body to play with,' you say. That's...sexy."

"Is that so?" Sherlock smirked. He shifted, and pressed a kiss on John's old scar. It was white. The crinkled flesh was soft on Sherlock's lips. The new one, close to its brother, was still very pink. He kissed that one, too, and John flinched. Sherlock gazed at the healing wound. "I imagine putting your arms over your head the way you had them... I imagine that hurt."

"A bit," John said noncommittally. "Not bad, though. I was alright."

"I tried to be gentle."

"Ha!" John's face lit up. "If that was you being gentle, I'd love to see what you're like when you aren't."

Sherlock felt himself stirring again at these words. "Really? Would you, now?" His eyelids drooped.

John's eyes widened. "Uh oh," he said, pulling a mockingly hesitant face. "I can see you are going to become insatiable."

"A fairly sound hypothesis," Sherlock growled. At that, he pounced. He paid no mind to the fact that John's whole front was sticky with semen, nor that he was still fully clothed and would now have to do an additional laundry after this. He just wanted to be close to John again. He kicked his trousers from his legs, and this time he allowed John to shove his blazer from his shoulders. It was damp with his sweat, anyway, and Sherlock was glad to have it off. Their mouths, warm and wet, melded in a deep kiss. Moans lit up the room again as John used all the strength he had to burst the buttons of Sherlock's shirt in a single swipe.

Hours later, the colleagues had put themselves through three more gorgeous rounds of hard fucking, and one session of a softer nature (initiated by John, of course). John had his arms wrapped around Sherlock's naked torso in their post-orgasm state, and Sherlock was shaking like a leaf. John, too was trembling around his friend. "God, Sherlock, sometimes..."

"What?" Sherlock placed a kiss on John's damp neck.

A moment's pause.

"Sometimes I feel like I really love you."

Sherlock said nothing, but clamped his lips tight, closed his eyes, and breathed deep the smell of sex from John's aromatic skin. John stroked Sherlock's hair. He was learning that Sherlock really liked that. About time, too, because Sherlock had already learned most of the things John liked with his impressive powers of deduction. Physically, they really seemed to fit together perfectly, like two sides to a coin, or a blade and its sheath.

"Sherlock?"

The detective took a deep breath. "Yes," he said quietly. "I understand."

John smiled. He figured that was the best he was going to get from his friend and, for now, he was alright with that. "Hmm." He kissed the top of Sherlock's head, and the detective shuddered. "Things aren't going to change between us, are they?"

"Only in that we're going to screw senselessly during these fits of boredom, John."

"Ha. Yes, of course. Only in that small way. No big deal or anything." John laughed. He shook his head. "I can't believe this was all brought about by a single stupid drunken night."

Sherlock grinned. "Yes. It's all the fault of the whiskey."

"Hm. Whiskey." John nuzzled into Sherlock's mussed, sweaty mane. "Yes."

John was kissing him again. Sherlock's head felt light and dizzy. He had never been so relaxed in his life. His mind felt like it was taking a short vacation. Of course, the minute Lestrade called (a few hours later), he was quickly jerked back into his usual state of nearly-inhuman logic with an insatiable need for stimulation.

Sherlock threw fewer tantrums, now. From that night on, as soon as aching boredom began to creep up on Sherlock's needy mind, he would ravage John until neither of them could breathe properly.

The bottle of whiskey John had bought that first night they slept together was never finished, and the morning after, Sherlock hid it. John seemed to have forgotten about it, but Sherlock refused to. Perhaps he'd never understand what caused him to do this, but he knew what John would say if he told him he'd stashed the thing away for safe keeping:

_Sentiment._

* * *

><p><em>That's the end of that, dear readers! Let me know what you thought, so I can make note of it for future stories.<em>


End file.
